


Of Pranks & Princes

by marvelousmiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Beauxbatons, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Implied Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Triwizard Tournament, Years Later, Yule Ball
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 68,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6864937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelousmiss/pseuds/marvelousmiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily Prince's life is uprooted when she discovers the cause of her father's death. Now, she must carve her own path in the magical world her family left behind, battling her family's secrets, and living under the watchful eye of her mother's appointed guardian. And just when she thinks she'll manage, along come two red-haired boys with a knack for trouble who change everything...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first stories I ever completed for the Harry Potter fandom, revamped and rewritten to be better and to tell a more interesting story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Just something to note before we progress:  
> While I intend to adhere as closely to JK Rowling’s established canon as possible, the canon that this story uses may – and does – bounce back-and-forth between what is established in the books and what is established in the films. Some instances have a sort of smushed canon, where it exists as a combination of the two. I have also created a few Original Characters whose existence is canon-divergence, though I hope that these characters’ impact on Harry’s story (which is of lesser relevance to this story) will be minor. But I hope you still love them all the same.
> 
> Feedback is welcomed and encouraged! Thanks for reading!

She didn’t remember exactly what day it was – or what time, for that matter – just that it was before the sun had risen and that she only wanted to sleep. The night had been somewhat restless to start, but the sudden rapping on her bedroom window was what startled Emily Prince fully awake. When she glanced over at the window she saw a barn owl sitting there, perched on the sill outside but dismissed its image as a figment of her imagination, remnants of a particularly vivid and bizarre dream. But then it grew louder, more distinct, and she wondered how her mother did not hear the noise from just a room away.

Against her better judgment, Emily got up in a daze and opened the window. The bird flew into the room and landed on her side table, holding a parchment letter in its beak. Emily circled him as he stood there, searching for any indication of where he came from, who — or what — had sent him. The owl dropped the envelope onto the floor and bowed its head. It let out a bellowing hoot and flapped its wings, preparing to leave through the same window from which it entered, and its wing brushed against the photograph on her nightstand, knocking it to the floor. The glass shattered from behind the frame. The owl flew off into the fresh sunrise, and Emily dove to clean up the shards that lined her floor.

She first moved the photo, careful not to tear it on the frame’s newly-sharpened edges. She was only a child in the picture, perched atop a man’s knee with her mother on her left side. Though she had obviously known him at some point in time, her memory of the man in the photograph — her father — had become rather fuzzy. That’s sort of what happens when people die, she supposed; the image fades with time.

What she did know of him was from the stories her mother told. “Your father was a great man,” she would say, and that had been enough for a while. Later, she’d get more. Her father loved animals, and he had excelled in school — a star athlete with excellent grades who went on to a successful career in government. He used to perform silly magic tricks, and Emily vividly remembered a particular card trick he showed off at her third birthday party. But that was it.

Emily set the picture back on her side table, scooping the glass into a rubbish bin next to it, and directed her attention toward the mysterious parchment letter. The green ink that emblazoned the front of it was peculiar, addressing the letter to her name and her house and her street, but there was no return address to be seen. On the back was a seal with a quarter-cut crest that read ‘Hogwarts’ in a capitalized font. Her fingers trembled with confused anticipation as she tore open the envelope.

Inside was a letter, just as she had imagined, but its contents were nonsensical. The writer mentioned a school and enrolment, but she hadn’t applied for anything. And her mother was more than content to keep her in school where she was. Had she not seen the address on the front, she would have surely dismissed the letter as a mistake, but it was clearly sent for her. Meant for her.

She pulled out the second piece of parchment and skimmed the list of supplies. _A History of Magic, wand, cauldron_? Where could she even find these things? Why would she even need them?

“Mum!” she called, the remnants of the letter still sitting on her lap, the envelope in her hand accentuating the tremble of her fingers. “Mum!”

The footsteps in the other room began as a slow, groggy shuffle, her mother digging around near the foot of her bed for a pair of slippers as she tended to in the morning. She knocked a hand against the doorway as she entered. “You all right?”

Her hair was frizzed about the crown, and she yawned wide, just finally beginning to open her eyes. When she saw Emily, she snatched the parchment from where it rested on her lap without a word. She caught a glimpse of the broken seal on the envelope, and her face drained of all colour. “No,” she whispered, breathlessly. “ _Merde_ , pas ça.”

“What?” Emily asked, but her mother wasn’t listening anymore.

“Severus,” she murmured as she ran to the kitchen and left Emily alone in her room, more confused than before.

>>>

He arrived at the house later that day, dressed in all black, dark hair slicked back, exactly as she had remembered. He came in without even a single glance at her and followed her mother into the kitchen. They sat across from each other, her mother still in her nightgown, her chestnut hair wrapped tight in a long, braid, streaked with grey throughout, and he dressed as if he had come in from a funeral. Compared to him, she looked so full of life, even now when she just about looked paler and sicker than she ever had.

“Severus,” she began, addressing the man directly, moving to take his hand from across the table. When he jerked his hand from her grasp, she continued, her voice hoarse, “I — I don’t know what to do. You’re the only one I trust enough with something like this.”

He didn’t say a word, just held out his hand until her mother handed him the letter. He glanced at it for a moment, his eyes hardly even resting on the parchment before he set it down in front of him. He still did not speak but looked expectantly at the woman across from him.

“I swore I would never let her become involved.” The more her mother spoke, the more upset she got, the more Emily could just barely make it out — the faintest echo of her old accent, not quite as thick as it had been when she was younger, but still distinct. She had moved from Nantes long ago, the accent having faded in time, but against her tears it sounded almost as if she had just been there.

“Surely you had to know that this was a probability, Noelle,” he replied. His face was uninflected, his stony features betraying no emotions. “Nothing can be done now.”

His words were cryptic, hiding every answer Emily sought, ignoring every question she asked. What was Hogwarts? Why did it contact her?

“Of course; I planned for it.” Noelle pursed her lips into a thin line that cut her face. “I destroyed the others, but this one came overnight. I did all I could!”

Severus nodded with a solemn sense of understanding. “The girl knows now…”

Noelle dropped her head into her hands before glancing back up at the man with tear-filled eyes. “You must be able to do something, Severus.” Emily hadn't ever heard anything like the desperation that currently coated her mother's voice. The words sounded like they cut through her throat on their way out of her mouth, and she shook against them. “Please.”

He sighed. “I will be there. That’s the most I can offer.” He stood up from his seat and looked down at Noelle as she used her sleeve to wipe the tears from her face.

“Thank you for that, at least.” She paused before calling her daughter into the room, seemingly unaware that Emily had overheard their entire conversation. She had never seen her mother look so old, her eyes sullen, sunken, a horrible mixture of black and blue and red. “Emily, darling, this is Severus.”

Emily nodded. She had already known that, of course. His was not an easy face to forget, with his hooked nose and sallow skin, though she only remembered seeing him once before. Even still her mother could sense her slight confusion — and surely he could too.

"Severus was your father's cousin," Noelle said with a weak smile. "He’ll take care of you… there.” She pursed her lips together before adding, “He’s a good man.”

“Where _is_ there?” Emily asked.

He finally looked over at Emily, and she nearly collapsed under the strength of his glare.

“Congratulations, Miss Prince,” he began, his voice throaty and low. “It seems you’ll be attending Hogwarts this coming term.”

She only moved to ask but couldn’t even get her mouth the whole way around the question before Severus cut her off with an answer, his condescension almost a tangible fourth party in the conversation.

"It's a wizarding school," he said, matter-of-factly, as if she should have known that from the start and that it was a judgment on her for not having known already. Holding up the parchment paper from that morning, he continued, "And this — this letter means that you’ve been accepted to attend."

In unadulterated shock, all Emily could do was stammer a response. "So, I… wait. I don’t understand."

“You are a witch.” The reply was short and very much to the point but it made her head spin, her ears ringing as she tried to focus on his words. “You have the rare ability to perform magic, though there’s been no _proof_ of that yet.”

"Emily," her mother began, but he cut her off with a raise of his hand.

"I think it's time you told the girl the truth."

"The truth?" Emily parroted.

"Emily," Noelle started over, taking a deep breath. "There are some things I haven't quite been honest with you about…" She broke off from her own sentence, rubbing her thin nightgown material against her arms. She wouldn’t look at her daughter.

"Like _what_?" Emily demanded. She could feel her body go cold beneath the mix of emotions that ignited within her.

"Severus," Noelle said, turning once again to him with pleading eyes, and he began to speak.

"Your father worked for the Ministry of Magic, which was attacked years ago by a powerful dark wizard and his followers, and he was one among the many casualties." Even when talking about her father, to whom he had reportedly been considered a good friend, Severus's voice sounded measured and uninflected. “And that’s it.”

"The… Ministry of Magic?" None of the words made sense — at least not together. “Dark wizard?”

"You’ll learn." His tone grew colder, each word a snarl escaping from thin lips. He crossed his arms across his chest, annoyed by the many questions.

Emily spun around to her mother. "Why’d you lie to me?"

"I didn't want you to be involved in all of this chaos if you didn't have to. I wanted everything to be _simpler_ for you."

"Did you not think I could handle it?” Her voice was harsher and louder than she had anticipated, and it startled her, roaring from her mouth. Her mother looked so small in her chair with Emily standing over her, with Severus casting a dark shadow over her petite figure.

Severus interjected, gently saying her mother's name as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Severus will take you to get everything you need, and then you'll be off…" Noelle said with a sad smile as she stood up from her chair. Solemnly, she rested a hand on her daughter’s shoulder before she left the room, crying under her breath, “Mon Dieu… Porquoi?”

Suddenly, with the void left by her mother’s exit, the small kitchen felt so impossibly huge. Severus’s voice added to its empty chill.

"I'll return in September," he said, and with that, he disappeared into thin air.


	2. Trolley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is here! And I promise that we'll see the twins in the next chapter, so there's something to look forward to.
> 
> As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated!

She had not been anticipating Severus’s early morning arrival on the first day of September, and when she answered the door, still groggy from having been asleep just moments before, he said only, “Five minutes.”

Emily had thought his tone was a joke until he began a countdown. Then she rushed back to her bedroom to fight the knots in her hair as she threw it into a tight braid, the wrinkles in her sweater, her beat-up trainers. She threw the last few things into her trunk. She hurried back to the doorway and looked at Severus, expectant.

“So what’s Hogwarts?” she asked, walking in step with him as they moved from the front terrace.

“A school.”

“Where is it?”

“Hidden away from muggle sight,” came his gruff answer.

“What’s a muggle?” she asked, and he scoffed in reply. Emily seemed surprised he was a teacher with so little patience.

When they approached the edge of the path, Severus grabbed her forearm, and she felt her body being forced violently in every direction.

She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. It was as if her stomach was being forced up her throat, spinning and spinning in every direction at once until they suddenly stopped.

It took her a while to regain her balance, and she leaned against her trunk as a brace. Her arm was pins and needles before the feeling came back to it. Even still, it took a moment for her mouth to be wet enough to squeak out, " _What was that_?" She surveyed her surroundings and realized that they were no longer standing in front of her quaint home in Chard. In front of her now was a rather overcrowded shopping strip.

The lantern-lined cobblestone street seemed to stretch out infinitely in front of her in every direction, crammed to each kerb with people. Men and women were dressed in elaborate robes not unlike Severus's, though in vast varieties of colour and pattern. Trailing behind them were children ranging from near-infant to her age and older, wearing jumpers and washed-out denim. The shopfronts they stood in front of were adorned with large windows, bright with displays – some selling books and parchment, some animals, and others yet selling broomsticks and cauldrons.

"Diagon Alley," Severus said, the announcement blasé. It didn't explain how they had gotten here, but she appreciated having a name for the place.

The buildings were all large, casting long shadows onto the worn cobblestones. One in particular stood above the others with a shimmering marble exterior that reflected the sunlight. Its slanted slope contrasted against some of the finer, straighter facades of the other buildings. The aged engraving on the outside read Gringotts Bank, the letters etched in thin capitalized font.

Emily moved to hand Severus the list that had been sent, but he ignored her prodding as if he did not need it.

“Your first stop,” said Severus, pulling her in the direction of the bank.

They stepped inside and noticed a substantial drop in temperature. At the tall counters sat multitudes of grotesque creatures with wrinkly skin and sharp teeth and pointed ears.

“Yes?” the creature asked, not even looking up from its work. Its – his – voice was deep and gravelly, reverberating against the vastness of the bank’s insides.

“A withdrawal needs to be made from the vault of Julian Prince,” Severus replied and held out a shining golden key.

The creature, still not once glancing up, pointed them to the left. Another creature of similar likeness called the two over onto a moving platform. He, too, requested to see the key before handing it back to Severus. The platform began to move, to speed along a rickety track, and Emily watched as the numbers gradually increased. _4, 17, 53, 110, 132_. The cart lurched to a quick stop, nearly throwing Emily from the sudden decrease in velocity.

"Vault one hundred and thirty-two," the creature announced, stepping off of the platform. He held out his hand toward Severus. "Key, please."

With the key twisted into the heavy deadlock, the door opened, revealing a pile of coins — mostly bronze. Severus climbed into the vault, pulled out a small change bag and began to fill it with handfuls of the coins, though he was careful to dig through the pile for Gold coins — of which there were but few. She had never seen this much money before. Well, she wasn't sure how much it even was, but it looked like a lot. More money than her mother had seen in her lifetime, though she could not use it and may not have known about it at all. As Severus and the creature stepped back on the platform, where Emily had been sitting, waiting with her hands folded on her lap, he handed her the bag and said, "This should be more than enough for everything." 

She didn't know how much it was, though she could see that it was not terribly large a portion of what filled the vault.

When they finally left, the sunlight was garish against her eyes, which had grown accustomed to the dark of Gringotts. Severus pushed her in the direction of a small, peculiar shop.

"You'll purchase your wand in there."

"Do I just pick one out or...?" When she turned around, he was gone.

She entered the small building and coughed as a reflex, dust swimming around her with each step she took inside. "Excuse me?"

A short, white haired man came to the counter from the back. "Yes, how may I help you?" He paused for a moment, then answered his own question. "Of course; you're here for a wand! Yes, when you're looking for a wand, Mr. Ollivander is most certainly the one to see. Lovely, just lovely." A tape measure with silver markings floated out from the dusty drawer, and he asked, "Wand arm?"

She hesitated, looking at both hands, unsure of which was the wand arm. Was it the dominant arm? Or were things backwards here?

"Which do you write with, my dear?" he asked, softly, as if sensing her confusion.

"Right."

The man, Mr. Ollivander, she assumed, measured the length of her arm, as well as various other measurements, muttering a little, "Ah", every now and again. He began to hum to himself as he returned to the rear of the store, coming back moments later with a long black box. "Try this," he said, handing the contents of the box, a pale, pinkish coloured wand, to her. "Redwood and unicorn hair. Ten inches." As she stood with the thing in her hands, unsure of what exactly she was supposed to do with it, he prodded, "Go on, give it a wave."

She did, and a light stream of colourful sparks flew from its tip. It felt warm in her hands.

"Interesting," he said with a smile. "You know, it's not terribly common to connect with the right wand on the first try. It often takes two or three, at least." He took the wand back from her, replacing it gently in its box. "The wand chooses the witch, my dear, so even I never know how it's to go."

Emily smiled, pleasantly surprised that something about this felt right, felt natural. Meanwhile, Mr. Ollivander began to jot down notes on a small piece of receipt paper, his quill dancing in a flurry of feathers with each mark. "As a matter of fact, it's been a rather long while since last this happened here. The last wizard I remember to have managed such a feat was… a young man many years ago. Great wizard, he went on to do great things and would've done more, I'm sure, but alas, tragedy strikes the best of us, I'm afraid. I remember every wand I've ever sold, my dear." He paused, glancing back down at the paper once or twice more before ripping it from the stack. Ever so slightly, he shook his head before he continued, "But enough about that. I'll need your name, please, and seven Galleons."

She pulled out the change purse Severus had given her. Were Galleons the gold ones? There were only eight total in her bag, though the bag itself was nearly filled to its brim. She hesitantly took seven of them from within and set them on the counter, answering, "Emily Prince."

Upon hearing her name, Mr. Ollivander seemed to stop short. "Prince? Yes, that was his name, Julian Prince, I believe." He paused, taking the coins and bowing his head to her. "Farewell, Miss Prince. I am certain that you, too, will go on to do great things."

When Emily walked out of Ollivanders, the wand box held tightly in her grasp, Severus stood waiting, an owl in a cage resting on the ground next to him.

"I've picked up your supplies," he said. "You've got a full trolley waiting."

"What's that?" she asked, pointing to the owl.

The bird looked like the one that had delivered her letter, with brown speckled feathers. It sat silently in its cage, pecking its beak against the metal bars.

Severus thrust the cage into Emily’s arms, nearly knocking the wand box from her grip.

"An owl," he replied coolly, "to use to communicate with your mother."

The owl looked up at her with big yellow eyes, his smallish body set in the centre of the cage. Guardedly, she moved a finger to just near the bars of the cage, waiting to sense the bird's reaction. She half-expected him to snap at her, but he nudged his beak gentle against her skin.

"I like him," Emily said, rubbing his small feathers. "Thanks."

Severus didn't hear her – or perhaps neither noticed nor cared. "Last you'll need is to be measured for robes."

He set her off in the direction of a seamstress's shop with a stone exterior where a petite older woman greeted her. She asked if she was looking to be measured for Hogwarts robes, and Emily nodded. The woman pulled her pearl-white hair back from her face and slid gigantic bifocals down her nose as she looked Emily up and down, muttering pleasantly to herself under her breath. Like with Mr. Ollivander, this woman's tape measure trailed behind her as she circled around, occasionally pausing to let it take a measurement, of Emily’s arms, chest, length, head. As she worked, she tried to ask Emily about her family, about school, but she was too distracted to answer.

All about the shop, Emily admired the stitched embroidery of some of the other cloaks emblazoned with deep purple Ms, shields bearing various colours and animals, ornate crests adorned with family names. Each one was so lovely and distinct that she wished she could know more about them.

"All done now!" the woman said with a beaming grin. She handed Emily a small stack of three robes with a pointed hat atop them. The robes, and the grey woollen sweaters that accompanied them in her pile, bore the quarter-cut crest that had been on the envelope that was sent to her. Her fingers brushed over each section – red, yellow, blue, and green – before she realized that they matched the coloured crests on some of the other robes around the shop.

The woman let out a small ah-hem, and Emily turned back to her again, having for a moment forgotten that she was still in her shop. "As soon as you're sorted, your Head of House will inform me, and I'll have your House robes sent up straight away." She paused for a moment, patiently waiting as Emily pulled out the money she owed her, both for the robes she had now and those which would come later. "Good luck, and have a fabulous first year at Hogwarts, dear!"

Severus met Emily at the door. "Done," he said, drawing in a deep breath.

He walked her outside of Diagon Alley, through a small pub at the street's fore. He handed her a ticket and rolled her now-filled trolley over to her.

"What's this?" She glanced over the ticket in her hand, and felt her body lurch, the sensation somehow much less painful the second time around. When she looked up from the ticket, they were in a dark alleyway of a populated train station. Kings Cross, she remembered. She had come here before with her mother.

"The train leaves promptly from Platform 9 ¾. Run straight at the wall between the platforms, and you'll arrive at the station."

Before she could ask him to repeat his directions, he was gone again.


	3. Tricks

Hesitantly, Emily approached the wall between the two platforms, just as Severus had instructed. She set her trolley to the side and stretched her hand toward the barrier, rubbing the tips of her fingers against the wall's surface. She knocked once, twice against it, the light knock almost silent. Brick. Hard. Solid.

There was no way she could go through that. And there was certainly no way that no one would notice her try. Surely it would cause a scene, a girl running trolley-first straight into a brick wall at London's largest train station.

Maybe it had been a lie, a means of abandoning her in a densely populated place with no way home. _Run straight at the wall_. Yeah, right.

Her fingers were still tapping against the brick, a panicked dance across the hard surface as she glanced nervously about the station.

"'scuse me!"

The voice had come from a girl, young with blonde hair cropped above her shoulders, pulled back from her face with a crisp, blue ribbon. She wore a grey pleated skirt with a matching grey sweater, bearing the same quarter-cut logo as Emily’s letter and fresh robes. Her trolley, too, was filled with the same items: a trunk, a cauldron filled to the brim with assorted supplies, and an owl in a cage, though hers was much larger and snowy white.

"I'm looking to get through," she repeated, and Emily couldn't tell whether her morning pep was faked or not. "Do you mind?"

Emily pulled her arm back and stepped away, dragging her trolley back as she went. As soon as she was out of the way, the girl began to sprint head-first toward the barrier.

Emily had wanted to warn her, _it's brick, solid brick_ , but the girl was long out of earshot. She braced herself for the sound of impact, squeezing her eyes shut against the sure chaotic mess that would result, but there was nothing. Not a sound. Not even a surprised 'hoot' from her owl. And when she opened her eyes to look up, the girl was gone.

Curiosity dragged Emily back in front of the wall. She touched it again, waiting for her hand to go through it, for it to suck her body in by sheer force. But it didn't. Her fingers rested against the brink once more, her pink painted fingernails tapping again against it.

Well then.

Among the swarms of people streaming through Kings Cross Station, not a single one of them was fazed by a girl being sucked straight through a wall. Not one of them hardly noticed at all.

As Emily leaned resignedly against the barrier, a strong hand tapped her shoulder. "Miss." She turned around to see a burly man with a full beard. He continued, his voice gruff, "You lost?"

"No," came her initial reaction, though even she could hear the uncertainty coating the word. "I, uh..."

"Can I see your ticket?"

She clutched the piece of paper tighter in her grip. 9 ¾, it read. That much she knew. But she also knew that 9 ¾ didn't exist, at least it couldn't exist in the barrier between the two platforms. And this man, surely, knew that too.

He clenched his jaw a bit, accentuating the harsh lines of his face before he spoke again, more sternly, "Please display your–"

He was interrupted by the sound of crashing trolleys, and Emily jerked herself around to see two young boys engaged in a battle, slamming the trolleys against each other as they ran around.

"Oi!" he shouted, running to chase after them. Emily snuck away from the wall, moving slightly closer to the entry to Platform 10, as she heard him yell off in the distance, "You quit that!"

She took this opportunity to sneak off to the other side of the station, her eyes still fixated on the wall – 9 ¾. How fast would she have to go to get through the barrier?

“File in, file in; there’s so many of us we’ll block up the whole way.” A plump red-haired woman led a group of similarly red-haired children, five boys and one girl, each in matching coloured jumpers. The formed a circle in front of the wall, the oldest four boys with trolleys in tow. “All right now, Charlie, you first.”

Emily watched the first boy as he adjusted his hands on the handle of his trolley and called over his shoulder, “See ya, Mum!” as he sprinted toward the wall. She feared the worst, but like the girl who had run before him, he was sucked straight through the brick exterior.

“Now Percy,” the woman said, kissing the next oldest boy on the cheek as he lined up and ran through the wall as well.

The youngest boy and his smaller sister began to whinge and sulk, tears running down freckled cheeks. The woman bent down to them and wiped their faces. “Don’t fret, you two,” she said with a reassuring smile, “it’ll be your turn to head to Hogwarts soon enough.”

“You should be grateful to be rid of us, Ron,” the slightly taller of the slender twins began.

The second continued, “But you can be sure that come Christmas, we’ll be back to cause more trouble.”

“Turn your pillow into a pile of spiders…”

“… Disguise some snails as candy…”

“Boys!” the woman looked back at her twin sons, shooting them a glare with daggers in her eyes, and Emily couldn’t help but chuckle as she watched them both turn pink in the ears. The mother huffed in, rubbing her youngest son’s mussed hair before looking back at the two. “It’s your turn to go, and we’ll be right behind you.” They both moved to go, but she called them back to her so that she could hug them tight and kiss them both, leaving the marks of a reddish lipstick on their cheeks.

“Mum!” they both groaned, each wiping the kiss from his face.

The mother smiled at the two and moved to usher them toward the wall, but they hesitated. The one saw Emily staring and grinned. “Ladies first,” he said, stepping aside to let her go first.

“Come on now, Fred, George.” Their mother’s voice was stern, as she seemed not to have seen the girl to the side of them. “Don’t dawdle.”

“You’re always going on about politeness, Mum…”

“… And it’s only right to let a girl go first.”

“It’s _manners_.”

Their mother shook her head. “ _Now_ you two prattle on about manners, but when Aunt Muriel was by…”

They pointed to Emily, and she caught their mother’s eye – a young, pathetic thing, lost in the masses of Kings Cross.

“Oh!” Her surprise shook her whole body with a chuckle, punctuated with a pleasant smile. “Well, hello, dear.”

Emily’s lips upturned in response, though she didn’t say much of anything, instead hiding behind her trolley.

“Feel free to go first, dear,” she continued. “My boys will be more than happy to wait.”

“Peachy,” the twins agreed in unison, and Emily couldn’t tell whether they were being sarcastic.

She stood with the brick wall several feet ahead of her, hard and flat and seemingly solid. Was there a trick to it that she didn’t know? It had worked for everyone else, so what was there to lose, really?

Well, this was it.

She took a deep breath, taking the steps slowly at first then moving into a quick jog and then a full-speed sprint. Maybe the faster she ran the faster she’d either go through the wall or slam face-first into it and die… On instinct, her eyes shut as she approached the barrier.

When she finally looked, there was a long, scarlet train in front of her, surrounded with as many people as had been in Kings Cross. At least as many, maybe more. This new station bustled with people, mostly kids her age and older, with the occasional parent or two accompanying them.

“Trolleys over here!” The man calling out was older and a bit plump around the waist, balding and bespectacled. He wore a dark brown vest that also bore the same four-sectioned shield. “This way with your trolleys!”

Emily hurried in his direction, her own full trolley in tow, attempting to focus on her new destination despite the sensory overload she felt amidst the crowds.

Apparently, though, she had not hurried enough.

She heard the screeching and squawking of her owl before she felt herself crash into the ground, pushed full-force from behind. Though she had made it through the brick barrier without incident, she still managed to wind up face first on the asphalt. Fantastic…

“Blimey!” the other party groaned. Emily struggled to gather her things which had all escaped from her trolley, strewn across the ground. His things were too.

She mumbled a slight, “Sorry,” as she set her owl’s cage upright and began to sort through what of the mess was hers.

“What, were you waiting for the train to come to you?” His tone seemed much less angry than Emily had expected, and she looked up to see one of the red-haired twins from Kings Cross.

“Um… no, I just – I…” She could only sputter orphaned syllables, her brain desperately trying to choose between another sheepish apology and a clever retort.

“Hey, s’all right,” the boy said as he shot her a sympathetic toothy grin. “But you _will_ want to get out of the way before the other me comes through.”

Emily pursed her lips together, semi-upturned, and rushed to where the train’s conductor was collecting trolleys.

“Pull out your trunks!” he said as he pulled the trolleys nearer the train. “Make sure you’ve got your robes out and ready.”

“But my stuff!” a dark-haired boy complained. His teeth were askew in his mouth as he growled at the conductor, stomping a heavy foot on the ground.

The conductor chuckled with a slight twinkle in his eye, seemingly immune to the boy’s tantrum. “Don’t worry, there; it all gets sorted back to you tonight.”

Emily grabbed her trunk and headed toward the train, hoping to get a compartment before they all filled out. On the way, she passed the blond girl from Kings Cross, now hugging an equally blond man and woman whom she assumed to be her parents. The girl had her trunk at her feet and was struggling to pull away from the couple’s overbearing grip, protesting that she needed to leave or she’d have no seat on the train.

That was what Emily was afraid of too.

When she finally arrived on the train, it let out its blaring warning whistle, and though she knew she was not the last to make it, Emily had travelled by train enough to know that by this point, there would be competition for compartment space. And, boy, was she right. Many of the first several compartments were full already, housing older groups of friends who swapped stories of their summer escapades. What few spaces were left were being saved for somebody, and her insecurity led her to wonder if that “somebody” was actually somebody or just “anybody else.” She arrived at the back of the back of the locomotive prepared to stand for the entirety of the ride and sighed. Such is the first day of magic school…

There was one last compartment in the back of the train, its doors open ever-so-slightly. Emily yanked the door’s handle, pulling the compartment open enough that she could stick half of herself inside. The two twins from Kings Cross were seated inside diagonally across from each other, each taking up as much room in the compartment as possible.

“Mind if I –?” she began, but the one boy grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, her body and trunk falling haphazardly into the centre of the compartment. The first twin then turned to his brother and instructed him to close the door behind her.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” came the response of the second boy, apologizing for his brother. He hopped across the compartment to take the space next to his twin, allowing Emily the seat across from them.

She couldn’t tell which of the two had run into her outside of the train. Even studying them, they looked identical, save for their shirts, each a slightly different shade of the same light blue.

“You see,” the same boy explained, “Fred and I, we’re sort of amateur pranksters.”

“Semi-professional,” the other, Fred, corrected.

“Best there is,” his brother agreed.

The one boy, Fred, smirked, his thin lips spreading flat with an upturn in either corner. “Planted a dungbomb outside the compartment. Meant to surprise a couple of unsuspecting Slytherins.”

“Wouldn’t want you to get caught in that rubbish.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Fred’s impish smile spread further across his face.

“What’s a dungb–?” she began to ask, but the boys cut her off with matching smug grins.

“Wait for it.”

There was a moment of silence with only the background chatter of the other compartments and then an explosion just beyond their doors, its echoing boom shaking the entire train, followed by a fit of shrieks and screams.

The twins grinned at each other, each looking like the cat that got the cream, smiling with smug self-satisfaction as chaos erupted beyond the closed doors. Soon after, through the small space at the bottom of the compartment doors, the smell steeped in, slow but thick, the air coated in a grey-brown fog.

“That’s _awful_!” She was referring more to the smell than the prank as she covered her nose with her hands. The stench was putrid, reminiscent of rotten eggs left out in the sun and dumped into a public restroom that hadn’t ever been cleaned.

“Eh,” the one shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“Used to it?” Emily asked, retching from behind her hands. “You mean you don’t smell that?”

“Pretty much numb to it at this point.”

“Might’ve burnt all our nosehairs over the summer anyway.”

Emily could no longer hide her gagging and rushed over to the window. “Well, I can’t breathe in here!” Finally pulling her hands away from her nose, now hit full-force with the stench of dungbomb, she twisted the lock on the window and thrust it open, revelling in the burst of fresh air it offered.

“No!” the one twin shouted, grasping desperately at the air. “The spoils of our efforts – gone!” The other punctuated his sentiment with a sad, sorry squeak.

“Yes, congratulations,” Emily said haughtily. The window reflected her smug look, which she promptly turned on full display to the twins as she sat back down in her spot.

The twins both sputtered at each other, one finally saying, “Honestly, George, just who does she think she is?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, Fred.” He paused for a moment, his face contorting with confusion followed by the dawning of realization. He turned to her. “Actually, who _are_ you?”

“The nerve of this one. Sit yourself down in our compartment and don’t even tell us your name.”

“I did _not_ just –” She cut herself off with a purse of her lips. The argument wasn’t worth it. Instead, she took a breath and readjusted herself in her seat to regain her composure. “Emily.”

“You come with a last name there, Em?” the one asked, and Emily clenched her jaw, bothered by his presumption that he could call her by a nickname. “Or did the hippogriff just drop you off on the sidewalk looking all sorry like?”

“It’s Prince,” she replied through clenched teeth. “Emily Prince.”

The boys sniggered. “Her royal highness!”

“Miss Princey, Queen of the Carriage!”

Emily rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest as she slumped herself back in the seat. “Yeah, real rich. Never heard that one before.”

They both dramatically bowed, nearly folding themselves over in their chair.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty!”

“We didn’t mean to offend!”

Ignoring their continued gag, Emily looked between the two of them. “And what do people call you two?” She paused, tongue literally in cheek. “I can think of some rather creative names myself, but –”

“Oh, Princey!”

“Stop, you’re making us blush!”

“Names,” she demanded. “Now.”

They paused for a moment, looking at each other, then each stuck out a hand to Emily and, in perfect unison, said, “George Weasley.”

“Oh, come on now. You can’t both be George,” she protested. “That’s not how these things work.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. “Figure it out then.”

She had been watching them for a while now, keeping tabs on which one referred to the other by which name, watching for specific tics, listening for patterns of speech… But she still had to admit, it was tough. They were identical. _Identical_ identical. The same brown eyes, the same patchwork freckles on each cheek, spreading across the same nose, matching string bean bodies angled to avoid the entanglement of long limbs. One of them had a little mole on his neck, but she sure as hell didn’t know which.

As confidently as she could muster, she picked one of them and pointed. “You’re George.” His eyes widened a bit, and she turned to his brother, whom she assumed to be Fred, who was looking at her from beneath raised brows. “Which makes you… the other one.”

"Lucky guess," he groaned and slumped back into his seat.

There was a knock on the compartment door, and an older boy in black robes poked his head inside. He had curly black hair, his robes adorned with a yellowish gold and a small badge that read ‘Prefect.’

“We’ll be arriving shortly at Hogsmeade Station, so you lot had better change to your robes; I’d hate to see you lose House points before you’ve even been sorted,” he instructed, altogether pleasant in tone. “There are changing compartments down either side of the train, so feel free to utilize them.”

When he walked away, closing the door behind him, Emily grabbed her trunk down to pull out her robes and turned around to Fred and George, both stripping off their pants.

“Oi!” she shouted, shielding her eyes. “They’ve got changing cabins, you hear?”

But the boys, both only the slightest shade pinker in the ears, had already begun to pull on their black uniform pants by the time she left to change.


	4. Troll

Emily headed back to the compartment nearly ten minutes later, after having waited on the seemingly endless line for the changing cabins. The robes that she put on felt baggy, the bell sleeves cascading past her wrist. She was careful not to trip over its lengthy hem as she returned to the compartment where she had, she only just realized, left two troublemaking boys alone with her things.

When she got back, Fred and George were sitting across from a black boy with short, dark dreadlocks.

“Hey,” the boy said with a grin. He looked at Emily only briefly and then turned back to the boys.

She was hesitant as she sat down next to him. “Um… hi?”

“Em, this is Lee. He’s a first year too,” one of the twins said. Emily hadn’t considered that upon her return they’d be so difficult to tell apart again. “Lee, this is Emily.”

“Princey,” the other twin corrected, and she was nearly certain that it was Fred. “Her name is Her Royal Highness Miss Princey.” Lee snorted in response.

“My last name’s Prince,” Emily explained, rolling her eyes at Fred. “It’s really not _that_ funny.”

“Mine’s Jordan,” Lee replied. “Not funny at all ‘cept it sounds like they got my name backwards.”

Fred hooted with laughter, slapping his knee with a howl. “Oh, I like him. You’re cool, Jordan; you can stay.”

“Left all my stuff in the other compartment though,” he said, and Emily couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. “With those Slytherin prefects.” He made a sneer and crinkled his nose at the thought of going back.

“We’ll be there soon enough anyway. It’s already dark.”

Lee slumped back in his seat, relieved.

“What’s a Slytherin?” Emily asked, almost out of nowhere. She had been thinking the question since the twins first mentioned their dungbomb. “I mean, you two pranked them before –” She pointed at the matching gingers before turning her finger to Lee. “– and you look like it’s a fate worse than death to be around ‘em. So what are they, and what makes them so bad?”

“Buncha lousy blood purist prats,” Lee grumbled, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “Kept talking about how many…” He paused for a moment as if struggling for the words. “… How many mudbloods are on the train this year.”

He had whispered it the second time, his voice barely audible over the roar of the train.

“You’ve got to have loads of evil in your blood to be one.”

“Slytherin’s the worst. They try and sort me there, I’ll leave.”

“Sort you?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, there’s a whole big Sorting ceremony,” Lee said, perking up slightly. “It’s how they pick what House you get in ‘cause there are four.”

The quarter-cut crest on the black robes made much more sense.

“I have it on _pretty_ solid authority that you’ll have to fight a troll,” Fred said. Emily waited for a smirk to crack through his pursed lips, but it didn’t.

“ _What_?”

“And if you make it,” George began.

Fred injected, “Many don’t.”

“– You’ll get yourself sorted into one of the Houses.”

Emily was hesitant to ask her next question, fingers trembling as the sweat built up on her skin. “And, um, what happens if you _don’t_ make it?”

“Then it’ll eat you o’course.”

“What d’you think would happen?”

“And they let children come to this school? To fight a troll and die?” Vexed, she added, “Children!”

Fred quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well, children are its favorite food.”

“Gets its fill the first day, and it’s good ‘til the end of term.”

“And then it’s finals,” Lee finished.

“That’s absolutely barbaric!”

“True,” Fred said with a slight nod as George looked sympathetically at her, “but we’ve had three brothers beat it already, so we know the tricks.” The twins both grinned.

She turned, horror-struck, to Lee, who shrugged.

“My dad taught me.”

Emily’s reflection in the window stared back at her with pleading eyes, which she turned on the three boys. “Well, can you teach me? Please?”

The train lurched to a stop as it arrived at a small station made of blackish brick. It was so much darker and colder than it had been.

“Sorry, Princey,” Fred said as he pulled down her trunk and handed it to her. “But we’re all out of time.”

>>>

The air around them was brisk as they exited the locomotive, and she tried to snuggle under her robes to stay warm, now grateful for the extra fabric. The wind burned against her cheeks as it whipped them red and raw.

The older students, dressed in robes with coloured accents, moved in the straight line, at the edge of a forest clearing where carriages waited, pulled by nothing. Some people, only a few, stopped to stare, entranced for some reason by the empty space in front of the coaches. 

“Firs’ years!” At the edge of the dock at the opposite end of the station stood a burly man with a thick black beard and long black hair. He was easily, by at least a foot, the tallest man Emily had ever seen, with waving hands larger than her head. “Firs’ years o’er here!”

Where he waited were dozens of small rowboats floating in the water of a gigantic black lake. As the students approached, the giant man set aside their trunks and pets, and Emily bid her owl farewell with a sad smile.

“Four per boat, please! And keep yer hands and feet and other ‘ppendages inside ‘til we reach the castle!”

The boats were bigger than Emily had expected them to be. Whereas she anticipated four people in a boat to be particularly tight, they each had plenty of room to sit comfortably.

With one swift motion, all of the boats began to move at once, across the black lake and in the direction of a massive stone castle. Everything seemed so much bigger with magic.

The water in the lake was murky, almost opaque in its darkness, but when she looked down into it, Emily saw a giant eye staring up at her before it disappeared into the depths below, and she felt her body trembling. Giant lake creatures, a troll – her old school had done nothing to prepare her for this.

“You okay?” She turned around to see Lee shooting her a comforting glace. Fred and George were awestruck, fighting each other for the prime view at the boat’s front; at one point, Fred threatened to chuck George overboard for it. “You look a bit… green.”

“Boatsick,” she replied. It wasn’t a total lie. Her stomach had started tumbling before they got to the boats, sure, but the rippling of the water, no doubt from whatever horrific beasts lurked below the surface, certainly did not help. At this point, she was likely equal parts motion sick and homesick and ready to vomit out of sheer panic, her intestines twisting into knots as out boat inched closer and closer to the castle.

He moved to set his hand on Emily’s shoulder, hovering over her for a moment until he clapped his hand down. “Don’t worry; we’ll be there before you know it.”

They pulled into the docks at the stone castle, and Emily could barely make out the train’s scarlet silhouette in the distance. The castle was even larger up close, perched atop the plateau of a cliff, all elegant stone and candle-lit windows.

“Welcome,” the giant man said, helping students out of the boats, “ta Hogwarts.”

The students continued to follow him as he led them up a flight of stairs that led to the castle’s iron doors, which swung open as soon as he lifted a hand to knock. A woman stood in the doorway, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun and buried beneath a tall pointed witch’s hat. Her emerald green robes reached to the floor, and Emily wondered how they didn’t trip her when she walked.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said, nodding politely to the man who dwarfed her. She turned to the rest of the students. “And welcome, first years.”

She ushered them all into the castle, each of them hesitant to follow behind her, the sound of her heels echoing through the empty corridor of the entrance hall.

“Wait here,” she said with one hand against the door to the Great Hall. “I will come for you when we are ready to begin the Sorting Ceremony, at which time you will be accepted into a house, your own Hogwarts family. Until then, be patient and remain ready.”

She left the chamber, and Emily felt her stomach drop. Surely, she was getting the troll. And what chance did Emily have of making it through that? To her knowledge, she couldn’t even do magic. Even Severus said there was no proof that she could. And by the time the woman returned, Emily’s palms were soaked with sweat, and her heart beat a deafening pulse within her chest.

“Form a line, please.” The students all moved from their haphazard disorderly crowd into a single-file queue on command. “We will enter the Great Hall at once, and I will call you up one by one to be sorted.” The woman paused for a moment, her beady eyes glancing over the lot of them from behind her glasses before she opened the door and let them all in.

There were five large tables filling the expanse of the hall – students in color-coded robes sat at the four in the room’s centre, while the larger table at the fore seemed reserved for faculty. Emily spotted Severus at the end of that table and waved to him, but her smile was met with a stern glare and apathy.

In front of the staff table was a stool with a pointed burlap hat set on top of it, dirty and frayed at its edges.

“Hey,” she nudged the twins and Lee who were all in front of her in the line. “Where’s the troll?”

“The troll?” Lee parroted, confused for a moment before he caught on to the question.

“Blimey, you muggleborns can be _thick_ ,” Fred replied, staring at her with one raised brow.

George smiled in a way that seemed almost sympathetic. “C’mon, Em, we were just taking the mickey.”

“Yeah,” Fred agreed. With a mischievous smirk, he continued, “Besides, everybody knows they save the troll for the end of term.”

Lee snorted, stifling his laughter behind his hands.

“ _That’s_ your idea of a joke?” Emily hissed, indignantly. “My heart nearly stopped!”

From just behind the stool, the woman – no doubt a teacher – let out a small cough to catch the students’ attention. Everyone in the hall was staring at the hat, which just sat on the stool, unmoving.

Until it twitched. Emily swore she had imagined it until its brim opened into a wide mouth, like a smile, and it began to sing a rhyming song.

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty, but don’t judge on what you see,” it said, its voice booming through the quiet in the hall. “I’ll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me.”

The song continued on and on. For what felt like forever, the hat sang about the history of the school and its founders, each of whom crafted a house in their image and took students in according to preference for desired personality traits: bravery, cunning, intelligence, kindness.

“Briggs, Violet.”

The first name was called out, and the short-haired blond from Kings Cross walked tentatively to the stool, setting the hat gently upon her head. Everyone waited with baited breath to see what would happen, and the hat shouted out, “Ravenclaw!”

She let out a relieved sigh before dropping the hat back on the stool and rushing over to the blue-coloured table, the students there all beaming with pride at their house’s new addition.

The names went quickly after that, the process almost expedited by the hat’s speedy decision-making. Davies to Ravenclaw, Diggory to Hufflepuff, Everdeen to Gryffindor, Grimsby to Slytherin, Johnson to Gryffindor… When Lee’s turn came, the hat went quiet briefly, muttering a “ _hm…_ ” before announcing loudly “Gryffindor!” The twins clapped for him especially loudly as he went to sit with the other red-clad students, and the names continued, flying by so quickly Emily could barely keep up. Several more to Hufflepuff and Slytherin, a few more each to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.

“Prince, Emily.”

Fred heard it before she did and jutted an elbow into Emily’s side to get her attention.

“Oi!” she spat. “What’s that for?”

He nodded his head toward the stool, and her face went pale.

She approached it slowly, each step calculated, measured, before placing the matted cloth atop her head. The hat, though made of a thin burlap fabric, weighed down against her.

“Been quite a while since I’ve had one of you here, a Prince.” It wasn’t speaking aloud, but its voice resonated in her head, booming within her skull. She clenched her teeth against the sound as it continued, “Long history of Slytherins in your line. You could fit there too. I see ambition. Plenty of cunning, yes. And clever – oh so clever. Yes, you’d make a fine Slytherin.” Emily’s breath hitched, and all of the awful things Fred and George and Lee had said about Slytherins flooded back to her. _Got to have loads of evil in your blood…_ Was that really her? Was that really her family? “And yet, there’s more to you.”

The silence of the of the Great Hall was deafening, blaring against her ears as she wondered if the hat’s deliberation could possibly be as long as it felt.

“Wit and curiosity, neither a flaw; you’ll do well in Ravenclaw!”

Until the applause erupted from the hush of the room, she hadn’t even realized the hat had spoken out loud. She was ushered over to the table decked out in blue ad bronze, sitting in an empty seat next to the blond girl, Violet.

“Welcome to Ravenclaw!” an older boy said, grinning at Emily. At the front of the room, a boy named Pucey was sorted into Slytherin. “Name’s Robbie Hilliard. Prefect.”

Emily smiled at him and introduced herself as well, though it felt a bit unnecessary after having her name announced to the whole room just a minute before.

“Weasley, Fred.”

Emily turned in her seat to see Fred stroll ever so casually to the stool and set the hat lopsided on his head. “Always another Weasley,” it said out loud, and she wondered if it had intended to or not. “Off to Gryffindor with you!”

He headed to the red table, proudly welcomed by one of the older brothers she had seen at Kings Cross. And then it was George’s turn.

“I swear I sorted you already,” the hat groaned as George put it on. “Gryffindor for you as well!”

The end of the sorting neared, the last few names called out and divvied amongst the houses. And in the silence that remained, before speeches and feasts, Emily saw Severus seated at the faculty table, shaking his head in disappointment, watching where she sat.

 _Long history of Slytherins in your line_ , the hat had said.

Until now.


	5. Toil

The start of term feast flew by in a flurry of announcements and introductions, accompanied by home-cooked delicacies rivalled only by her mother’s holiday cooking. Afterwards, all of the Ravenclaws were brought up several flights of moving stairs to a thin spiral staircase which let out to a door. There, they convened.

Robbie Hilliard spoke up first, of the six Prefects who were there, each identified by a shimmering blue pin. “This is the Ravenclaw House common room. You’ll spend much of your free time here with your Housemates and friends.”

Another prefect piped in, “And while most of the other common rooms require a password or code to get in, ours works a little bit differently.” She lifted the bronze eagle-shaped knocker and let it fall back against the door.

“Does a circle ever end?”

The voice that sounded from the knocker’s beak was soft, dancing in the air like a song. A woman’s voice with echoes of a Scottish accent.

“Let’s work it out together,” another prefect suggested.

As the Ravenclaws’ chatter continued, nearly fifty students discussing circles, Emily was distracted by the moving staircases, watching as they shifted. There must have been a pattern, but she didn’t see it. She could see over the edge of the spiralled stairs, down to the very bottom floor and wondered where the boys wound up.

When she looked back at the door, it was open, and the students filed in.

The Ravenclaw common room was larger on the inside than its door made it seem, decorated in stunning midnight blues and silvery whites with bookcases surrounding the room. There were sofas and armchairs strewn throughout and a large marble statue of a woman against the back with a staircase on its right.

“You’ll have plenty of time to explore tomorrow, since classes won’t start ‘til Monday morning,” said Robbie Hilliard with a yawn. “Dorms are up those stairs; boys to the left, girls to the right. We’ll see you for breakfast in the morning.”

The students’ trunks were already set at the foot of beds in the girls’ dormitory when they arrived. Emily’s was neatly packed and set at one of the beds nearest the door. The blond girl from Kings Cross was next to her.

She flopped down on her bed, flinging her body with a melodramatic sigh. The other girls in the dormitory began unpacking their pyjamas and preparing for bed.

“On the one hand,” the girl began, sitting up on her bed and folding her legs beneath her, “I’m incredibly tired.”

“Then go to bed, Briggs!” another girl called from the opposite side of the room.

“But, on the other hand, how could I possibly be expected to _just sleep_?”

“What do you mean?” Emily asked, looking up from her own trunk as she set aside her clothes for the morning.

“I mean I’m far too excited to just fall asleep right now. It isn’t even that late!”

A slightly older girl, with curly blond hair draping down her back like velvet curtains, replied, “You’d best get sleep or else you won’t be up for breakfast.”

The Kings Cross girl waved her hand. “Oh, _pish-posh_ , Penny. I’ll sleep eventually, and I’ll be quiet.” The girl then turned to Emily. “Are you planning on sleeping right off? Because I have books I could read, but I prefer, you know, human company.”

“I, uh… no, I wasn’t.”

“Lovely then.” She went over to her trunk and dug through it, pulling out her a pair of polka-dotted pyjamas, a thick book, and a small blue pentagonal box. She held one up and asked, “You want a Chocolate Frog?”

As appealing as chocolate sounded, frog sounded substantially less so. “No thanks.”

She shrugged and tossed the box onto her pile before sitting back up on her bed. “Your name is… Amy?”

“Emily.”

“Emily. Right.” She paused and took the blue box – the _Chocolate Frog_ , she had called it – into her lap. “I’m Violet.”

Emily smiled, taking her own pyjamas and toiletries from her trunk. “Nice to meet you, Violet.”

She unwrapped the small box, revealing a piece of chocolate, which jumped from its container and onto the other bed. “Oh, shoot. Could you catch that for me?”

“Catch it?” Emily went to grab the chocolate, but it was gone.

“Drat.” Violet’s face fell, and she continued with a sigh, “That does happen. I was hoping for Chocolate Cauldrons, but the trolley woman was all out.” She reached into the empty box and pulled out a card. “Oh, Newt Scamander! I think my brother needs him.”

“Who is he?”

“Wrote a book on dragons or something, I ‘unno.” Violet held the card out to her, giggling. “But he’s quite the looker!”

The man on the card was older with high cheekbones and a fair complexion, speckled with light freckles, and donned in bright magenta robes. He was smiling, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and then turned away.

“Has he gone yet?” Violet asked, and when Emily nodded, she said, “Yeah, they do that.”

Had she not noticed the moving portraits on their way to the common room from the Great Hall, then the moving picture disappearing on the card might have surprised Emily more than it did. The framed paintings of famous wizards and former headmasters had stirred about on the walls as the students had walked past, reminding them to be good and congratulating them on their sorting into the House of “Hogwarts’s best.” The phenomenon seemed somehow less shocking the second time.

Emily handed the card back to Violet, who placed it back in her trunk, setting a piece of parchment aside with it. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Shrugging, Emily replied, “Well, I’m from Chard in Somerset.”

“No. From _here_.” When she was still confused, Violet clarified again, “Your parents… they’re not wizards, are they?”

Emily shook her head. “No.” Then she remembered her dad – what her mum had said about him. What Severus had said. “Well, yes, my dad was.”

“Your dad was a wizard, and you’ve not once had a Chocolate Frog?” Violet seemed astounded, staring at Emily with big, green eyes.

“He, uh…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it and bit the inside of her cheek as a distraction.

Violet shot her a sympathetic glance. “It’s okay.”

Emily’s eyes nervously wandered the room, her anxiety only slightly quelled by Violet’s understanding. The dorm’s decorum, she noticed, was largely based off of the House colours: blue and bronze. Most of the other girls had their curtains drawn and were asleep, somehow unbothered by Violet’s unintentionally loud voice.

“You know what?” Violet began, drawing closed the far side of her curtain. “I’m going to bed, I think. I’m tired.”

“Finally!” came a voice from one of the closed four-posters across the way.

Violet rolled her eyes. “G’night, Em.”

“Night.”

>>>

Emily had learned three things at her first day of wizard school: 1, pictures could apparently move; 2, staircases had a mind of their own; and 3, if you put a bunch of girls in the same room to sleep, at least one of them was bound to snore – loudly. And lucky for her, that was Violet.

If it had been quieter in the dormitory, Violet’s snoring might have bothered her more, but it was just another clash in the cacophony of sounds that rang in her head. She could hear every breath, every toss and turn, the chirping of every cricket outside. It all kept her awake.

The blues of the Ravenclaw dorms seemed like such a foreign, cold colour, and for a moment, she wished the hat had stopped looking into her head after it mentioned Slytherin. Sure, the House had a terrible reputation, and she was sure being placed there wouldn’t have impressed her new friends, but at least she’d have had a _place_. At least she was connected to Slytherin in some way. Fred and George and their brothers were all placed in Gryffindor without much thought, and there was no doubt that Violet was fulfilling some grand family legacy by being sorted into Ravenclaw. But not Emily. And Severus’s glare burned in the back of her mind.

She wanted to call this stomach-churning stress that entangled her intestines _excitement_ , but… it wasn’t. It was fear. It was anxiety. Beyond that, it was panic. She felt the air catching in her throat as she struggled to force it through her windpipes. She was shaking, her skin covered in raised gooseflesh even though she felt on fire. And the tears came, sudden and silent, choking her until she couldn’t breathe, strangled by her sobs and her own anxiety. For a while, she was too paralyzed to even move and just let the overwhelming wave of emotion wash over her, like could maybe be cathartic. But it wasn’t.

Her legs were sweating, despite the late-night chill of early September penetrating the walls of the tower, and she kicked the blankets off herself, letting them slide to the floor in a messy heap. She shuffled herself around on the bed, trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep, but the sheets were sandpaper against her skin.

She wanted to scream, but not at the risk of waking up a dorm full of sleeping girls, so she crawled out of bed and felt around blindly for the door that led down into the common room.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, it dawned on her how much larger the common room was when empty. Its midnight blue carpeting was plush against her bare feet. There were ceiling-to-floor bookcases throughout the room, each filled to capacity with novels, textbooks, notebooks, parchment stuffed into every nook and cranny. Her fingers brushed against the spines of the oldest looking books, feeling the embossed titles against her skin with the smell of old pages lingering in the air. The silence of the room was calming, Violet’s snores only an echo in the distance, and only the dim glow of the moonlight streamed in from the space between the window’s dark draperies.

It was surprisingly hard to navigate the common room in the dark. Outstretched hands were all that stood between her and the large armchairs or her and the floor or her and the walls.

Until, that is, the walls moved, and she fell through them.

She spun herself around just in time to see the common room door slam shut behind her.

_Shoot._

The door was bare of a doorknob and keyhole, bare of anything save for the large bronze knocker shaped like an eagle. Emily lifted it and knocked it quietly against the wood of the door, waiting expectantly for it to swing open and let her back inside.

“Is this question impossible to answer?”

_Shoot – the riddle._ She had almost forgotten about the riddle and cursed herself for not having paid more attention to its answer earlier.

“Yes?” Her response was met with silence. “No?” Nothing. “I don’t know!”

“Is this question impossible to answer?”

“I already said I don’t know,” she whined, rubbing her hand against her eyes. “Don’t I get any credit for honesty?”

“Is this question impossible to answer?”

_Apparently not._

It went on for what felt like forever, a verbal volley between Emily and a door knocker. The light that fed through the small window opening gave little indication of how late it was. She only knew that she was exhausted.

With a groan, Emily slid to the floor, her head and back dead weight against the door. “Please let me in,” she said, her request punctuated with a yawn. There was no answer. She fought against heavy eyelids and felt herself slowly drifting into…

“Is this question impossible to answer?”

“Are you serious?” She glanced up at the knocker through half-closed eyes. “Listen, if you won’t let me in, at least be quiet.”

There was a moment or two of silence, lulling her to…

“Is this question –?”

“Please stop asking me.” She had expected her voice to come out as a snap, but she didn’t have the energy. “I just want to sleep. I don’t even care to go in anymore.”

The voice stopped, and with one last yawn, Emily closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and fell asleep.

After what felt like only five minutes, the voice jolted her awake. “Is this question impossible to answer?”

As her eyes opened, slowly and groggily, the voice repeated the question.

“I don’t even believe that there _is_ a right answer!” Emily replied with a frustrated moan, and her head fell back, slamming against the stone floor of the common room.

_Finally_ …

There were students already flittering about the common room, most of whom were dressed and ready for the day ahead. She couldn’t bring herself to ask what time it was. She probably didn’t want to know.

With her head leaning against the floor in the doorway, her whole body both in and out of the common room, she closed her eyes and sighed, too tired to even feel ashamed.

“Emily?”

She looked up to see Violet Briggs standing over her, with platinum blond hair falling over top of her face. As Emily groaned in response, Violet repeated her name and offered a hand to help her up.

“How long were you out there?”

Emily’s response was an unintendedly curt grunt. “Bed. So tired.”

Her large emerald eyes sparkled. “Well, we’re heading off to breakfast in a bit, if you want to come.”

“So, so tired.”

“It’ll be a while, though,” she said as she walked Emily to the stairs which led up to the dorms. “You’ll have some time to nap ‘cause Amina told us about this secret book her brother told her to find in the common room, so –”

“So tired,” Emily repeated again, her mouth moving independently of her mind.

She pointed to herself and a dark-skinned girl with long, spindle-straight black hair. “Well, you know where to find us if you change your mind.” And she was nice enough to walk with Emily back up to the dorms before she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look forward to Chapter 6 (which is the last in Part 1) next week!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading - you guys are great!


	6. Trouble

What was supposed to be a rejuvenating catnap before breakfast wound up a full night's worth of sleep, though Emily woke up feeling as tired as before – if not worse. The watch that rested on her bedside read five, and it took her a moment to realize that it was not five in the _morning_. Her grumbling stomach was also ever-eager to remind her that she had missed not only breakfast but lunch as well.

And beyond that, she had wasted away her first full day at magic school in her crappy four-poster.

As she sat up in bed and pulled her knees to her chest, the dorm door swung open. A gaggle of girls walked into the room all a-chatter. In the centre of the pack was Violet, unwrapping a thick blue-and-bronze scarf from her neck.

"Oh, Emmy, you're up," she said as she stopped at her bed. "We didn't want to wake you."

"Thanks."

"Unfortunately you slept through Robbie's tour." Violet set her scarf down onto her bed and dug through her trunk until she pulled out a set of bright blue studded earrings. She put them on and then admired her reflection briefly in a small compact mirror.

"It was wicked cool," another girl chimed in.

"He might do another after dinner, but I'm not sure."

As if on cue, Emily's insides churned, eliciting a low rumbling sound. "When _is_ dinner?"

"Soon, I think." She glanced down at the sparkling watch that adorned her wrist. "'Bout forty minutes."

Emily grabbed the clothes she had set aside the night before along with a hairbrush and her toothbrush and darted off to the bathroom, where she'd have just enough time to shower and make herself presentable before dinner. She dressed, throwing her hair into a messy braid, still nearly drenched. She had certainly looked better, though she took some pride in knowing that she was, at the very least, clean and comfortable. She pulled an oversized white sweater over top of her shirt and headed out, hoping that she could brush off her belated appearance as nerves coupled with a bad case of introversion.

"You can come with us, if you'd like, Em," the one girl, Amina, said, pulling her hair back with a butterfly clip. "We're heading down now too."

Emily nodded with a small smile. "Yeah, thanks."

Their conversation from that point centred on class schedules, which Emily had yet to receive. Violet talked about how excited she was for Defence Against the Dark Arts, her mum's favourite class when she had been in school; Amina preferred Flying, since her brother had secretly taken her joyriding over the summer.

The other girls made space for Emily with them at the Ravenclaw table, where she sat, admittedly hungrier than she had anticipated, and filled a plate to its capacity. She was so thirsty she downed pumpkin juice like it was water.

"You all right there, Em?"

She looked up, mouth full of mashed potatoes, with gravy running down her chin in cascades. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she struggled to swallow, and her throat burned against the heat of the food. Staring back at her, stifling laughter, was one of the twins with his brother and Lee in tow.

_So much for a decent first impression._

"I'm, uh, I'm fine," she replied, pushing her plate a bit aside, suddenly so aware of how much food filled her plate.

"You've got some food on your…" Fred began, hesitantly. He made a circular motion near his mouth and then moved the circle further and further. "… face."

Nervously, she covered her mouth with her hands, hoping to hide the remnants of her dinner that remained before she got the chance to wipe them away.

"We didn't see you at lunch," Lee interjected, and George added on, "Or breakfast even."

"Yeah, I was… uh…" What was she supposed to say? _Oh, I was in bed all day because I couldn't sleep and I wandered out into the common room and then I got locked out all night because I couldn't figure out the stupid riddle._

"She was with us." Violet, who had been sitting next to her, turned around to face the boys with a grin. "We went out crazy early because we wanted enough time to wander the grounds properly."

The three boys responded with satisfied humming shrugs, and Emily let out a deep, deep sigh of relief. From the corner of her eye, she saw Violet wink at her.

She stuck out her hand to them, almost as if they were all one person, and said, "I'm Violet, by the way."

The boys, rather than introducing themselves, each introduced the other – Fred to Lee, Lee to George, and George to Fred – giving Violet a sort of whiplash as she tried to process the information.

"A pleasure to meet you," Fred said, his tone playful.

Violet blinked a few times in response. "Same…"

"And where were _you three_ all day?" Emily asked the boys, all of a sudden sparked with fresh coolness. "Causing trouble, I presume?"

Fred chuckled, and both George and Lee let smug half-smiles crawl across their faces.

"If there's one thing you can be _sure_ of, Princey," Fred replied, crossing his arms against his chest, "it's that we'll always be causing trouble." He raised his brows at her and nudged her shoulder. "In fact, we're off to cause more mischief now, if you'd like to join us…" He turned to Violet to extend the invitation her way. "Both of you. We do love an audience, after all."

Violet grinned and stood up from the table, grabbing the sleeve of Emily's jumper to pull her along too. "Let's go, Emmy!"

She moved to leave with her and the boys until she heard it.

"Miss Prince…" The voice behind her stopped her dead in her tracks. "Might I have a word?"

Her throat closed up as she ushered Violet and the boys on without her and then turned around, barely squeaking out, "Y-yes?"

Severus stared at her with black irises, almost empty. "Do you have a reason for not gracing us with your presence at breakfast this morning – and lunch this afternoon?"

Emily stumbled her way through her justification. "I had some… um… issues… with the common room."

"Excuses, excuses." He shook his head, raising an eyebrow as he looked back at her again. "You'll find that your Head of House has your timetable for this term."

"Oh," she replied, pleasantly surprised by how reasonable he seemed. "Thank you, Sev–"

"And I'll see you in my office after dinner hours for detention."

 

>>>

Emily begrudgingly trudged herself to Severus's office in the dungeons as the large clocks signalled the end of dinner with eight tolls. Her braid was still damp, though the air had dried it slightly into a loose frizz, and she could feel it tickling against the back of her neck.

The dungeon was dark and dank, and Severus's office was in its furthest corner. The stench of wet stone burned in her nose. It was a wonder he could work down here.

"Miss Prince," he greeted her at the door, bringing her in to his large Potions classroom. He sat her down at one of the long tables, with a large piece of parchment and a quill with ink set down in front of her. She looked up at him expectantly as she took her seat. He explained, "You'll be writing a full page of parchment about why it is necessary to abide by school rules and procedures."

"But I —"

He cut her off. "I won't have you getting into more trouble on my watch."

As she picked up the quill, examining it before carefully dipping it into the ink well, she let out a slightly exasperated sigh. Severus poked his head out the doorway and stood waiting. A few moments later, in walked Fred and George, both greeted by surname in Severus's low drawl.

"Hey! It's Princey!" came Fred's exclamation as he entered with his brother.

"Silence!" Severus shot the two a stern glare, bringing them over to the opposite end of the classroom, each gripped by the collar of his shirt. He pointed to a stack of cauldrons and a bucket of soapy water, handing the boys a pair of toothbrushes. As he made his way back across the room, and as she tried to focus on her essay, Severus said, more to the boys than to her, "You'll stay until you've finished."

And the door slammed behind him.

Emily hadn't ever used quill before, which was painfully obvious by her first use now. She moved to start her essay, leaving a large stain of ink that had dripped from the oversaturated quill atop the parchment. She really wished that she had brought a pen instead…

_It is necessary to abide by school rules because —_

"So… what're you in for?"

She looked up from her parchment at Fred and George who sat cross-legged on the floor, their toothbrushes lying askew on the ground beside them.

"Missed meals." She kept her answer curt in the hope that she could avoid questions.

_School rules and procedures are important because —_

"Didn't take you as the detention type."

Emily clenched her teeth, drawing in a sharp breath. "I'm not."

_School rules and procedures ensure order and that a school runs —_

"Well, you're here though, so…"

She slammed her quill down against the table and turned to face them, swinging her legs around to the other side of the bench. "But _I_  won't make it a habit to be here. Unlike the two of you."

"What's Snape got you doing?" George asked.

"Essay." She picked the quill up again, dipping it absentmindedly into the inkwell.

Fred scoffed. "School didn't even start yet, and you're already writing a paper?"

"At least I'm trying to do my work."

As she turned back to her parchment, Emily caught Fred's shrug in her periphery. He and George picked up their toothbrushes and looked at the stack of dirty cauldrons that loomed over them. George stood up to pull one to the floor and struggled beneath its weight and heft. It, along with the ones immediately below it, clanged to the ground, echoing in the emptiness of the dungeon classroom.

"Can't you two clean quietly?" Emily hissed. She had rewritten the same sentence three times over already.

"You know," Fred began, scratching the dry bristles of the toothbrush against a particularly grimy dirt patch on the cauldron, "this would be a lot quieter and faster with some extra help…"

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her essay, writing a quick, though admittedly somewhat slapdash, explanation about school rules establishing structure for students and faculty. Her large, loopy cursive quickly brought her to a full page of parchment and then some.

Over her shoulder, she called over to the twins, "You still looking for some help?"

"Yes, please," George replied, and she noticed that they were both still scrubbing the same one spot on the cauldron as they had been before.

"Hold on," she said, staring blankly at the tall stack of cauldrons that still remained, the fallen few strewn about, and the _one_ that was set in front of them on the floor. "Have you done _anything_ yet?"

"We were waiting for you."

Groaning, Emily ripped the toothbrush from Fred's hand and dipped in the whole way into the bucket to scrub a particularly unsettling green stain on the inside of the cauldron. She was on the floor on her hands and knees leaning over the edge of the bucket, working quickly to finish cleaning it so she could least start a 'clean cauldrons' pile next to the extensive dirty pile. She looked back and forth between the two of them and demanded, "Are you lot going to help or what?"

While George picked up the other toothbrush to clean another cauldron, Fred laughed. "You work too hard; that's the problem, Princey. In life, spontaneity is key. Let loose; have fun."

"We're in detention," she replied, scrubbing harder. "I don't see how this could possibly be fun."

"Oh, _really_?"

She caught a mischievous gleam in Fred's eye and sighed, shaking her head. She was about to reply when a handful of soap bubbles flew at her face. Upon hearing Fred and George snicker, she wiped the soap bubbles from her nose and tossed them back at them. Despite throwing them with all of the force she could muster, the bubbles floated gently towards the twins, landing on George's ear and in Fred's hair. As the two exploded into a fit of laughter, she found it infectious and fell into it herself.

There was a hiss coming from the corridor, and they looked up through bubbles to see Violet's face.

"Want some company?" She was smiling until she saw the mess. "Or some... help?"

The perplexed look on Violet's face caused the three to erupt in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. She quirked her brow at them and stepped into the room.

"Emily?" she asked, her voice a concerned whisper. "Are you okay?"

They had not gotten much accomplished by that time. Emily was only just starting on the second cauldron, and Fred and George were each pulling down another. Things were going a bit quicker, though, now that the boys had at least started to really work.

"Detention's fun with us, Lilac," Fred said with a wink as he continued to scrub. "You should try it sometime."

"It's _not_ fun," Emily corrected, shooting him a glare. She turned back to Violet and added, softly, "Really, they're awful."

In faux-offence, George scoffed. "Oi, we resemble that remark!"

Violet chuckled from behind her hands. She grabbed a dirty rag that was on one of the tables and tossed it to George. "You lot might want to clean this mess up soon. I saw Professor Snape heading this way." She turned to leave but waved first and said, "I'll see you later, Emmy. Bye, boys!"

The three were quick to get back to work, though grateful for the brief distraction that Violet's presence had given them, and their cleaning was shoddy – as shoddy, at least, as Emily's essay. And as they heard Severus's footsteps approaching the door, Emily rushed back to sit in her seat, quill in hand as she pretended to finish writing her paper.

"You know, Princey," Fred said as he and George stacked the half-cleaned cauldrons in a pile. "This could be the start of a lovely friendship."

And so it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, next time we see Em, Violet, and the boys they'll be starting their 6th year at Hogwarts (a little flash forward).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Part 1! Thank you so much for reading and staying with the story!


	7. A Sign of Goodwill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of 6th term.

Emily passed through the platform to where the Hogwarts Express was waiting and smiled at the sight of the nervous, new first years. It was almost unbelievable that only five years ago, she had been in their place. A lot had changed since then.

With her trolley dropped off to the conductor, she approached the kiosk at the platform that sold _The Daily Prophet_ and traded the clerk two knuts for a single copy. When she was at school, she could mooch off Violet's subscription, but during holiday and school breaks, the kiosk at 9 ¾ was her only chance for updates on the wizarding world. Her mother never much liked being involved in that "magic absurdité," and when Emily had brought home a copy of the _Prophet_ to show her during the Christmas holiday in her first year, Noelle promptly tore it to shreds without even a fleeting glance.

Her trunk slammed to the ground when she saw the headline, big and bold and sensationalist – the _Prophet_ 's standard. _Terror At The Quidditch World Cup_ , it read. Though it was written by Rita Skeeter, known for her lack of journalistic integrity, and therefore easily written off as fiction, the title still nagged at Emily. She didn't know much about the Quidditch World Cup, herself, never having had the chance to go, but Fred and George and their family did. They had told Emily at the end of last term, bragging that they would get to go and root for Ireland. They were there. And maybe Violet had gone with her brother, now old enough to attend. Which led her to fear what the word "terror" meant. And she scanned the article, scouring – though certainly not hoping – to find any familiar names. The world seemed to melt away around her as she dug deeper and further into the paper, the sound of her own pulse muffling her ears. The thin newspaper shook in her trembling hands.

 _What if?_ she asked herself. _What if?_

Upon reaching the end of the article, which offered no legitimate information or conclusions, Emily forced herself to take three deep, long breaths. It wouldn't be any good to freak out now, she decided, as if the words alone could steady her blood pressure and heartrate, both of which were likely far too high to be healthy. With one last extended inhale and exhale, she folded the paper back up, clenching it in her fist.

_Do. Not. Panic._

As always on the first of September, Platform 9 ¾ was brimming with Hogwarts students, old and new – too many to count. She scanned the crowd for familiar faces – Lee, Violet, the twins, Amina, Duncan, anyone. The air around her was hot, more so than usual on the first of September, and she brushed away an auburn curl that had stuck to her sweaty face.

When she finally did catch sight of them – red hair all aflame and towering above the nervous first years – she ran to them, grabbing each into a bone-breaking embrace and laying a kiss on each cheek.

"Oh, thank God!" she said, and they seemed confused by her greeting.

"What's this all about?"

They stood there, longer and lankier than she remembered them being when she left them at Kings Cross last summer. Their hair had gotten longer too and shaggier, running almost to their shoulders. But beyond that, beyond the physical, they hadn't much changed at all, it seemed. Not like she had – with her thick hair finally settling into its waves and her shining prefect pin, freshly shined, and her list of O.W.L.s. And they looked at her, this version of her, with intrigue and perplexity coating their every feature, from brown eyes to freckly nose.

"You almost _died_ ," she explained to them, shoving the paper against Fred's chest. Now in retrospect, it seemed ridiculous for her to have been so worried.

He took it but didn't glance at it even in passing, instead turning with a mischievous grin to his brother. "We should go off and almost die more often then, eh, George?"

"Yeah, if this is the kind of greeting we come back to," George replied with a chuckle. "Nice to feel appreciated."

Emily pouted, raising an eyebrow at the two of them. "Well, maybe next time I'll just resign myself to the fact that you're dead."

Fred folded his arms across his chest. He shot her a challenging look, accompanied by a passing smirk and a wiggle of his brow. "You'd miss me."

"Like hell."

Her palms were still sweaty from residual nerves, but her blood pressure had returned to normal levels, and she was grateful just to be able to breathe. Then her face bent into a smile, and she looked between the two of them with chuckling bubbling within her throat. They soon joined her, each boy draping an arm over her shoulder as they moved to the train.

"Where'd you leave your stuff anyway?" George asked.

Emily broke from them to return to her trunk, which still sat where she had left it by the paper kiosk. She shot the clerk an appreciative smile and lifted the heavy thing into her arms.

The twins rushed over to her, and George took her trunk from her, dragging it behind them. "Oh no, you don't."

"You know," she began, walking in line with them back toward the train, "if you keep this up, you'll trick me into believing that you're actually nice."

"We're plenty nice."

"Oh, sure," she said in retort. Her hands clicked into place against her hips as she turned to them. "But if you're _plenty_ nice, then there surely must be a reason why I'm only your school friend, eh?"

"Well, yeah," said Fred, looking suddenly dumbstruck. The two boys stopped in place, George still holding Emily's weighty luggage in his arms.

George clarified, "You never accept our invitation home for holiday."

"We've tried." Fred shuffled his feet against the ground, and Emily looked dodgedly out of the corner of her eye, avoiding George's freshly-intensified look. They _had_ asked; that was a fair point.

But, in her defence, she had her mum. And, more importantly, her mum _only_ had her. It was the least she could do for her mum to spend time with her over holiday, to visit whatever destination her mother chose to visit – the past year it was Cannes, though they had spent a week of the summer with her mother's family in Nantes – just the two of them.

She sighed. "You know I can't, though. It's just me and –"

"Your mum; we know."

Emily pressed her lips into a hard line, her eyes passing between the two boys. A large group of students in muggle t-shirts headed around them towards the train, and though the three of them had stopped for a moment, caught in the heat of their conversation, Emily began moving again. Once the twins started up behind her, with her trunk in tow, she turned over her shoulder to say, "Well, the least you can do is write."

"We don't do homework on holiday, Princey," Fred argued playfully as his shoulders softened ever so slightly.

"Homework?" she parroted. "It's a _letter_. To _me_."

"It's work."

"At home."

Emily let out a frustrated sigh as she shook her head, her loose waves shuffling with the motion against her shoulders and back. "I suppose then I'll just have to wait until we all get to the train to make sure you're both okay."

"Are we special, or did you worry this much about Lee and Violet too?" George asked as he readjusted the weight of the two trunks in his grip. Hers was much, much heavier than his, causing him to hold his body at a contorted angle.

"Where is Indigo, anyhow?" asked Fred, paying his brother's struggle little mind as he looked around the platform. "We caught Lee in passing on our way over, but we didn't see her yet at all."

At their height, towering above most of the students near the train, they had a much better chance of spotting Violet than she'd have had. Violet, whom she hadn't seen since they parted ways at Kings Cross at the end of last term. Violet who wrote her three letters every week over summer holiday, though she only ever got one in return from Emily. But Violet still had Amina, whom they had met in first year, and Patty, whose pureblood family lived next-door to Violet's. They were all pleasant girls, almost tooth-decayingly sweet to Emily, whose prefect status came with the burden of nightwatch shifts in the castle and mandatory seating in the prefects' compartment of the Hogwarts Express. Knowing Violet, she and the other girls had already found a picturesque compartment near-ish the front of the train with ideal access to the restrooms and changing cabins. Violet was smart like that.

When Emily and the twins arrived at the Hogwarts Express, the prefects had already begun convening near the locomotive's front. They had an assigned compartment, so there had never been much rush to reach the train before the first years.

"I can take my trunk back now, George," Emily said, shooting the slightly shorter twin a smile as he passed her stuff to her. "Thanks a bunch."

"That's _Fred_ ," the other corrected before adding, off-hand, "But that's fine…"

And suddenly Emily was completely mortified, her dewy complexion draining from her face and refilling with a bright red flush. Had she really mixed them up? Had that much time really passed over the summer that she already forgot which twin was which? She had always prided herself on being able to sense the subtle differences between them, but doubt and embarrassment and confusion swallowed her now. "Ohmygosh, Fred, I'm so sorry!"

"He's taking the mickey, Em. I'm George."

"Thank goodness." Emily felt relief wash over her, and everything fell back into place. "You made me think I'd lost my touch over holiday."

"Maybe not _this time_." Fred shot her a playful wink.

"We'll see you, though. We're gonna go find Lee in this mess."

She smiled over her shoulder at them as they walked toward the far end of the train. "Good luck!"

Then she turned back to the prefects and felt a sudden twinge of anxiety. It was Emily's second year as a prefect, so by all counts, she shouldn't be this nervous and it shouldn't be any harder this go around. And after the Dementors on the train last year, anything else should be a piece of cake, truly. She shuddered just at the thought of it, the coldness that spread through her bones, the paralysis she felt as the hooded creatures floated past her, too close for comfort, the absence of sound where the memory of her father's voice had once been…

Emily shook it from her head. _Anything_ would be better than that.

But still, she was tentative. Penny Clearwater, who taught Emily the ropes as a fifth year prefect, had graduated last term as Head Girl, Allison Alden was doing the same level of double-duty as seventh year prefect _and_ Head Girl this year, and Emily hadn't met the fifth year prefects yet. Rather than suffer through extensive introductions on the platform, she headed into the train where she could sit in silence and read.

The prefects' compartment was larger than normal ones by a hair and segregated by House, so Emily's compartment would soon be filled with the other Ravenclaw prefects, save for the Head Boy and Girl. For now, book in hand, she appreciated the quiet.

A few chapters in, the compartment door slid open, and in walked Roger Davies. For a moment, Emily had almost forgotten that he was the other prefect in her year; they hadn't really talked enough last term for it to have made a difference.

Unlike the twins, who seemed not to have changed all that much over summer, Roger had filled out in himself, grown out his hair a bit. His sixth-year Chaser muscles were cut clear beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and Emily blushed when she realized she had been staring.

"Oh, hi," he said as he lobbed his trunk on the overhead shelf. "You must be the new fifth year prefect!"

Emily gently closed her book around her finger, to save her place until she could grab an appropriate bookmarker. She looked up at him, sheepishly. "No, actually."

"Then who…?" He dropped his question as he studied her face. "Oh. I'm so sorry. It's… Amy, right?"

"Emily," she said and realized just how invisible she had been.

"I'm making such an arse of myself." He ran his fingers through his hair, his t-shirt skimming just enough to hint at toned abs. "I'm really sorry."

"It's all right." She wanted to hide back behind her book, escape back into the world it contained and away from Roger's apologetic tone.

He sat down opposite her in the compartment and took another look at her. "I'm rubbish with faces, so if you've… changed your hair?" He paused while Emily shook her head. "Or stopped wearing glasses?" She pursed her lips, and he continued, "No?"

"But I blend in," Emily argued, brushing her auburn curls behind her ear. She dogged-eared the page she was on in her book. "So it's okay, really."

Roger let out a sigh, and his dark brown hair fell across his eyes. "It's really not though. I feel terrible."

She hadn't imagined that he'd have been bothered at all. So what he forgot who she was? So what he called her Amy? So what he _still_ couldn't place her, though they had been prefects together all last term?

Was it all worth it, now that he was talking to her? A little bit…

And it was still worth it even as the new fifth year prefects _did_ come. Because once Roger introduced himself to them, an Irish boy named Iain and a black Scottish girl named Davina, he turned back to Emily and _kept_ talking to her.

Before long, the trolley witch came by with her extensive offering of wizarding candies that Emily hadn't tasted since the train ride home in the summer. The trolley witch's voice was a pleasant hum amidst the louder-than-life conversations that resounded through the train.

"Let me get you something, as an apology," Roger said, reaching into his denims to pull out money. And when Emily shook her head, he tried again. "As a sign of goodwill then."

"Fine." It was hardly a concession; her mouth was practically drooling at the sight of the sweets, though it was even nicer that he had thought her offer at all. "But just a liquorice wand. Then we're good."

He flashed her a smile, bright and white and incredibly charming, as he handed the trolley witch some Sickles, purchasing a liquorice wand each for the other two prefects as well. Looking back at Emily, he asked, "You're sure you don't want anything else?"

Emily could feel the flush burning in her cheeks and she set her book to her side, turning to face him more fully. "This is perfect. Thanks."

Roger purchased a handful of jelly slugs as well, "just in case."

She bit into her liquorice wand, and Roger looked at her expectantly. "So, tell me more about you, Em. Since I obviously need a bit of a refresher."

Nervously, Emily stammered a bit, stumbling on her words before asking the new prefects to talk about themselves a bit first; she hadn't ever really been great with attention on her. Iain and Davina, nervous though they were, seemed slightly more at ease discussing their families and ambitions with Roger's warm brown eyes glancing their way. Though his glance was calming, reassuring, it was also the very thing that made Emily most nervous.

Roger Davies. Quidditch captain. Star student. He should have been far less approachable. At least, that was how it felt last term.

And then his eyes found her again, focused on her.

"Well, um, I, uh…" She paused, running her lip between her teeth. "I'm from Chard in Somerset, and I live with my mum, and… What do you want to know?"

Roger let out a chuckle. "It's not a job interview, Em, just a conversation."

"Sorry."

Iain pulled out a pack of cards and suggested a game of Exploding Snap. While Davina excitedly agreed, Roger politely declined and turned back to Emily.

"What do you do in your free time?" he asked and then pointed at her book. "You like to read?"

Emily nodded and pulled her book back onto her lap, gushing about the story and the characters created by a renowned Muggle author. Her eyes lit up as she described the plot, and Roger grinned. Then they got talking about Wizarding literature and Muggle movies and what Wizard families do during the summer months.

"Believe it or not, I've been planning our Quidditch strategy all summer," Roger said, stretching his arms behind his head. There was a slightly manic twinkle in his eye. "And that Cup is ours this year."

There was a loud _snap_ as the cards in Iain's hand exploded in a puff of smoke, but Emily was so enraptured in conversation that she hardly noticed.

"It's not that I don't have faith in you, Roger, but we've only won once in recent history," she replied with a coy smile.

"Well, Gryffindor lost Wood this year, and Johnson doesn't scare me, so they're an easy takedown"

Emily laughed, the noise shaking her shoulders and bouncing her curls. "If I were you, I'd be more afraid of Angelina."

He had opened his mouth to retort when the compartment door slid open, and Allison Alden stuck her head through to say that the prefects would be starting patrols soon. The prefects' compartment quickly emptied to the changing cabins before each of them agreed on a patrol destination.

Emily had chosen the front of the train, where she knew that Violet sat with Amina and Patty, who greeted her excitedly in the residual post-summer flurry.

"How've you been?" asked Patty, pulling Emily into a quick hug.

"Good," she replied, pulling her hair back off of her face. A large beam spread wide across her face. "Well, great, actually."

"Why so great?"

Emily stepped into their compartment, closing the door behind her and trying to ignore the feeling of claustrophobia that followed. "I was sitting in the prefects' carriage alone, and then Roger Davies came in, but he didn't even remember me!"

The girls waited eagerly for the remainder of the story, met only with silence, before Violet finally said, "… And that's… great?"

"Well, not that, but then we got to talking, and he bought me candy off the trolley, and we were chatting the entire train ride!"

Patty squealed with delight. "That _is_ great, Emmy!"

"You've had eyes on Roger for ages," Amina agreed.

"I mean, he honestly didn't know who I was, but –"

"Make him apologize with a date!"

Emily turned to Amina, rolling her eyes. "I'm not going to blackmail him into going out with me."

"Please just do _something_ about it this year," said Violet finally. Always the voice of reason and resolve. "It's been two whole years."

Smirking, Emily replied, "I promise nothing," before she reminded the girls that they'd arrive at Hogsmeade soon and continued her patrol.

>>>

Once Emily had finished her share of compartments in patrol, she took a quick detour to the train's end, knocking twice on the door of the very last, endmost cabin.

"We're already dressed so bugger off," came a voice from inside. Surely one of the twins.

"You don't even know who it is, you oaf!"

Emily slid the door open and smiled at the compartments residents – Fred, George, Lee, and, surprisingly enough, Angelina Johnson. "It's me."

She was greeted by a chorus of "Hey, Em!" and one "Hi, Princey."

On Fred’s lap, in the centre of the compartment, was an open leather briefcase with a painted ‘W’ on its front.

“Oi,” Emily said and pointed at the case filled with sweets, “you know the deal — no testing your pranks on the train.”

“We’re just lookin’ at ‘em,” Fred said.

“Just talkin’ about ‘em,” said George.

“Honest.”

In unison they both turned with beaming grins. “Right, Lee?”

Lee nodded, but when he moved to speak, his tongue rolled from his mouth, twice as long as usual.

Emily’s mouth set into a hard line, a contrast to her newly wrinkled brow as she glared down at the twins, who were both struggling to hold in their laughter. They were red in the face, suffocated, as the hysterics spread to Lee, too, his tongue still a loose ribbon that ran down from his lips. The three boys passed along high-fives, and George made a note in a small book of parchment.

Before she could even get a word out, though, the briefcase was already packed away and stowed beneath their seat. “Yeah, yeah, we know.”

“Prefects are fun-killers,” Fred said with a groan and sulked. He stretched his long legs out on the seat opposite him.

“Be grateful I’m letting you keep it,” she said, setting her arms into hard angles at her hips.

“Why don’t you just go back to your fancy prefects’ compartment, you spoilsport?”

“Maybe I will.”

"What’d you even come down here for?" asked George. "Davies was already here."

A grin crept across Emily’s face. “I had good news to tell you.”

“The Malfoys got eaten by dragons over holiday?” Fred suggested, his eyes wide with hope.

“No… but that _would_ be nice.”

George’s guess came next. “You know how to recover Leprechaun gold?”

“What? No. Lemme just tell you.” Emily took a calming breath, but she couldn't hide the blush that rose into her cheeks. She ran her teeth over her bottom lip and came out with it. "I’ve just been talking to Roger, and we’re really hitting it off this term."

“Davies?” asked Angelina, and when Emily nodded, she added, “Nice.”

"Term's hardly started, and I'll bet he couldn't even pick you out of a crowd," Fred mumbled.

Her brow furrowed, and her jaw clenched, and she could feel her body growing cold with anger and embarrassment at the same time. She felt so suddenly stupid standing in the compartment with them and their judging eyes. Fred's words, surely not meant for her to hear though the whole compartment had, slapped her hard across the face.

"Tough shite coming from an _identical twin_ , really" Angelina said with a flippant wave of her hand, and Emily was so relieved that Angelina had been sitting there with the comeback she'd never have thought of. But the remnants of tears still lingered, burning in her eyes.

"Oi, I think we all better just cool off a bit."

"Yeah, I guess I'll just see you lot later." She pursed her lips as she took a backwards step out of their compartment.

"Hey, Em!" Roger called out from the front end of the last train car. He was waved his arms at her, the fabric of his sleeves – black and blue and bronze – flapping wildly around. But his wide grin was still so charming and infectious. "You coming? We're almost at the station!"

And as Emily said quick goodbyes to the Gryffindors before leaving with Roger, she could hear, though not discern, Fred's indistinct grumbling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terrible person with a lot of guilt for leaving you all hanging these past few weeks, but hopefully this lengthy chapter makes up for it a bit!


	8. 12-6-3-3-9

That night, when the train arrived at the station, and the new first year students were welcomed into the Great Hall, decorated, as it always was, in shades of scarlet and gold and green and blue, something felt different to Emily. She couldn’t place it, but it was certainly different.

The Hall itself was chillier than usual, as if a brisk wind ran through it at regular intervals. Even some of the more hot-blooded of the students shivered against the bitter cold. Warm pumpkin juice in metal mugs helped a bit, but even that couldn’t fully warm the room, and Emily swore she could see her own breath as the new first years entered the Hall, several looking just as overwhelmed as she remembered having felt.

Even the Sorting Hat’s song was the same, mostly — though there were always slight variations to keep things interesting year-in and year-out. The students were Sorted in much the same way as usual, in an assortment that slightly favoured Slytherin this time around.

And it wasn’t until Professor Dumbledore spoke for the evening that she knew why it felt different. Dumbledore’s speech was nearly the same every year — with the same reminders about forbidden spaces and rules specific to the first years. But not this year. This time, his speech was only two words: “Tuck in.”

The thick smell of potatoes and ham exploded into the room, bringing with it a new warmth as the plates filled magically. Though Emily didn’t want to admit it, she was so hungry, and by the looks of it, so was everyone else. Each student dug quickly into the piles of food, ravishing the plates and leaving stray bits and pieces along the table on the way.

Once the students were sufficiently filled, Dumbledore stood again at the head of the room, bright eyed and beaming, as usual, and announced that perhaps now, hunger satisfied, he hoped everyone would be in a better state to receive the news that there would be no Quidditch.

On instinct, Emily’s eyes flickered to Fred and George at the Gryffindor table. She watched them pout, watched them comfort Angelina who would _not_ get to be Quidditch captain this term. And then Emily glanced over to Roger.

He sat across the table from her, lips pursed, looking frustrated and angry and upset, all wrapped in one complicated emotion. But she shot him a sympathetic smile, and he mouthed back “Thank you,” and she could feel the warmth igniting in her body.

But good feelings only ever lasted so long — at least the last three years at Hogwarts — and the Hall went silent upon the slamming open of large wooden doors, revealing a scarred, gruff man with a glass eye whom Dumbledore introduced as Alastor Moody, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. The Hall remained in a stunned silence as the man took his seat, scraping his chair harshly against the floor as he did.

“But as I was saying, let us not be so disappointed about the loss of the Inter-House Cup this term,” Dumbledore continued, his voice booming over the quiet that echoed through the hall. “Instead, Hogwarts will be the host to the Triwizard Tournament.”

“You’re joking!” a voice cried out, and Emily recognized it as Fred’s without a glance. The silence of the room cracked among the laughter that broke out.

Dumbledore shook his head with a dismissive chuckle in Fred’s direction. He continued to explain the Tournament for those, like Emily, who had not a clue what it entailed. A friendly magic competition, he explained. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion from each school. Three magical tasks. Last held in 1792. Death toll mounted, and —

_Death toll._

If there was one thing this school didn’t need any more of, it was danger. And a subsequent death toll. Merlin knew there were _plenty_ of ways to die here — between the “Chamber of Secrets” that had attacked several students in her fourth year to Sirius Black and the Dementors that nearly killed Potter last year. The _last_ thing Hogwarts needed was a “mounting death toll.”

Emily wasn’t the only one who was hesitant, and it took Dumbledore’s further prodding about gold and glory to engage more enthusiasm for the competition in the students, which all dissipated once he spoke again.

“However, because the Tournament is so dangerous, the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed that only students of age — seventeen years or older — will be permitted to enter the competition.”

“That’s _rubbish_!” came the twins’ voices, and theirs were soon followed by dozens of others, shouting and complaining that they would not be old enough to participate.

There was a nudge at Emily’s arm, and she looked over to see Roger, his face glowing with excitement and pride.

“You entering?” he asked.

“Birthday’s not ‘til June,” she conceded and tried to feign disappointment. In truth, there was no way in hell she’d have entered, even if she could. And even if she did want to, there was no way Severus would have allowed it.

From the far front of the Hall, Emily could feel Severus’s eyes burning into her skull, as they always did at the start of term. And she was sure that the week, like the first week of every term previous, wouldn’t end without detention, what he called “a deterrent for troublemaking.” Despite her proclivity for good behaviour, despite high marks on her O.W.L.s, despite her Prefect status, he still saw her as nothing more than a nuisance.

Now, he looked at her as if to dare her to _try_ entering the Tournament. As if he didn’t know her enough to realize she wouldn’t.

Then again, he really didn’t.

“And now,” Dumbledore continued, and his echoing voice caught Emily’s attention once more, “it is late, and you must all be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Bedtime now! Chop chop!”

The Ravenclaw prefects all stood to escort their House to the common room, and Emily remained in the back with Roger. On the Hogwarts Express, the two had agreed to take the morning greeting shift, with Allison and Duncan Inglebee taking on the night introduction.

As she left the Great Hall with the rest of her House, she waved to her Gryffindor friends, though they seemed much too enraptured in discussion — or rather, complaints — about the Tournament’s announcement.

The prefects walked the new Ravenclaws up the moving staircases and to the tight spiralled staircase that led to the common room. Standing at the door, Duncan explained why Rowena Ravenclaw had chosen a door knocker to guard her commons, and Allison began walking the students through the term’s first riddle.

“And if you ever have trouble with the door,” Roger said from the back with a beam that revealed perfect dimples as he put a hand on Emily’s shoulder in introduction, “Emily here stays to help you figure it out.”

All last year, Emily had waited outside of the door to the common room, collecting large groups of younger students who did not have the answer to the door’s question and keeping them company until it was answered. She hadn’t ever really gotten the hang of the door’s riddles herself, though, so the waiting wasn’t always for the benefit of the younger students. But she wasn’t going to correct him about it now.

Instead, she fought the blush that crept up her cheeks and pursed her lips into a polite smile before she and the rest of Ravenclaw House went off to bed.

>>>

Although the girls’ dorm was quiet — perhaps too quiet — Emily couldn’t sleep. The sound of her own breathing echoed in her ears, her pulsing heartbeat filling the room with deafening noise. Even after five years, the first night of school still did this to her, though she had learned her lesson about wandering.

Still, she wished she could talk to someone, wished Violet was awake, wished Fred and George and Lee weren’t all the way in Gryffindor tower. She wished she could read her book without a light that would wake the other girls up. And she wished, perhaps more than anything else, that she could blink and bring morning.

What she needed now was a warm mug of Butterbeer — that would certainly do the trick. Whether it knocked her out or woke her up was a different question altogether. Or perhaps a cup of her mother’s tea with just enough peppermint to lull her to sleep.

Yeah, that would be nice.

But all she had was the silence of the girls’ dorm past midnight, this four-poster bed with the same old scratchy bedsheets, and all the anxieties of the coming day as her eyelids grew heavy, and she finally fell asleep.

>>>

The next morning, Emily was up with the dawn, anxious for the start of term. Sixth year was, after all, the most important. It was the year that students made final decisions about what they wanted to do with their live, the year when their O.W.L. results confirmed or denied their career aspirations. It was the year that internships were determined and job connections were forged. And the first day of sixth year started with an all-important meeting with each student’s Head of House.

For Emily, that was Professor Filius Flitwick, Hogwarts Charms master. She had always liked Professor Flitwick. As an instructor, he was kind and fair—those things that Severus was not—and he gave off, at the very least the impression, that he cared about each student in his classes. Even the slightest positive attention, even just a called out “nice work, Miss Prince” following a successful conjuring made her feel worthwhile. And at the end of last term, Professor Flitwick had spoken with her, just a few hours before she sat for her O.W.L.s, and discussed her career options. She had what he called “a multitude of talents” which would surely lead to “a vast variety of options,” and it was one of the nicest compliments she’d ever been paid. Truly a much kinder accolade than Severus’s insistence that she do _something_ worthwhile.

And even still more exciting was knowing she’d get her schedule at breakfast and that she could find out what classes she’d share with Roger. And Violet, Lee, and the boys, of course — but with the kindling of a fresh friendship with Roger, his seemed the most important.

She could hardly eat at breakfast that morning, taking only sips of her pumpkin juice and a few small bites of a muffin. Even Fred and George noticed a difference in her.

“Hey, Princey,” Fred began, mouth full of oatmeal as he leaned on Emily’s shoulder, “what’s got you so twitchy this morning?”

“Eating like a bird,” George noted, almost to the side, as Lee nodded.

Emily chuckled and with an offhand shrug of her shoulder, shaking Fred’s hand from it, replied, “Doesn’t everyone still get nervous on the first day of term?”

“Only prats, really.”

She pouted for a moment before conceding, “That’s me then, clearly.”

The boys forced some space open at the Ravenclaw table and sat next to her, facing backwards with their legs outstretched in front of them. “Clearly,” they replied in unison.

“You’re not the least bit anxious though?” she asked and pressed her lips tightly together. She looked more serious now, sterner. There was a worry line that had carved its way across her forehead over the summer holiday while she worried about her O.W.L.s scores and pre-emptively agonized about the upcoming N.E.W.T.s. “It’s the start of N.E.W.T.s, after all.”

George scoffed. “They’re not ‘til the end of next year, Em. It’d drive us batty to worry that far out.”

“We didn’t even worry about the O.W.L.s when we took ‘em!” Fred added with a chuckle as he slouched against the table.

From next to Emily on the other side, Violet jeered, “Surely that’s because you studied and were aptly prepared, yeah?”

“If that makes you feel better, Mauve, then sure.” Fred and George both shot her a wink as an impish grin passed between them, and Lee let out a snort of laughter.

Despite the noise erupting from their part of the Ravenclaw table, the Great Hall seemed notably quieter than usual at the first breakfast of the year. Dumbledore had already spoken again, given his reminders about classes and schedules, punctuated, this year, by another mention of the Tournament, which prompted more whispers and mumbling. It seemed that everyone wanted to compete, despite stern warnings about the risk-to-reward ratio — even Roger who was talking with Duncan Inglebee, imagining aloud what it would be like to be the Hogwarts champion.

But there was still time before the Tournament was scheduled to begin, and there were far more pressing issues at hand.

Emily brushed her hair back behind her ear and turned to face them. “How _did_ you guys do on your O.W.L.s?”

“Sheesh,” Fred began, throwing up his hands, “we’re not back at school for two minutes, and she’s already on about grades.”

“What more could you expect from a second year Prefect?” Lee replied, off-handed, before stealing a gulp of Violet’s pumpkin juice.

“Prefects are prats; that’s what I always say.”

“None of your answered my question, to be fair,” Emily replied with a half-smile.

“I passed all of mine,” Violet replied, beaming proudly, and when Lee mumbled that it was no surprise, she rolled her eyes. “Os in Muggle Studies, Potions, Defence, and Herbology; Es in everything else. That’s nothing _too_ crazy.”

Lee went next, raising a finger for each class on the list as he went through them. “Herbology, History of Magic, Defence, Astronomy, Creatures, and Arithmancy. So that’s…” He counted on his fingers. “Six.”

“We got six too!” said the twins in unison again, and they passed high-fives among them.

“I’ll admit, I’m impressed.” Emily’s pursed lips spread wide into a grin across her face. “Which ones?”

Fred started, “Charms.”

“Herbology.”

“Transfiguration.”

“Charms.”

Emily interrupted George with a gentle touch to his arm. “You said Charms twice.”

He smirked. “No, I didn’t.”

There was a brief moment of silence, ephemeral, as Emily pieced together the conversation. “Wait… you got six O.W.L.s _combined_?”

“What? Like that doesn’t count?” Fred asked with a shrug.

Violet was quick to shoot back, “Generally, no, it doesn’t.”

“Well, it should.”

Emily stared at them both from beneath raised brows. She blinked rapidly as if the motion would change something.

“Quit looking at us like that!” Fred snapped, turning the slightest shade of pink in the ears, though he pushed his bright orange hair down to cover over it. “And what’d you get then, anyway?”

She had studied her O.W.L.s results for the last week of holiday, memorized the paper in its order. She could recite it as if she were reading it. “I got nine.”

“That’s great, Emmy!” came Violet’s overzealous response. And the general consensus was that nine wasn’t half bad at all — even though it didn’t stand anywhere close to Violet’s twelve.

But Fred was less impressed. “Hold on a second.”

“What?”

“You took eleven classes last term,” he said with a quirked eyebrow.

Emily didn’t look him in the eye as she brushed her fingers through the split ends of her hair, fiddling with the frizz. “Yeah… and?”

“ _And_ that means you failed two.” His voice was taunting, challenging, as he leaned closer to her. “So spill it. Which ones?”

She could feel his breath on her face. Hot, sticky, and stinking of cinnamon. And her cheeks were burning red with embarrassment as she stared at the floor and mumbled her reply, “Well, History of Magic, but that’s rubbish.”

“… And?”

She curtained her face behind the waves of her hair. “And Herbology.”

George looked personally affronted. “How’d you fail Herbology? I even helped you study that one!”

“I tried,” she said, her voice more pleading than she intended it to be. “But I was so awful at it.”

“Wasted effort, Georgie,” Fred said with a dramatic sigh. “That’s what you get in the academic world.”

Emily tried to throw in a retort, but her breath caught in her throat, and she choked on it, trying to force any words out. Violet quickly interjected on her behalf, “How about you two though? You failed Potions.”

“Because _we_ didn’t try — we _never_ try, but _her_ — _her_ of all people! She tried, I’d imagine, but obviously not hard enough.” Fred paused for a second and indicated toward George who still seemed a little disappointed, though the feeling looked to be dissipating quickly. “Look at him — he’s heartbroken.”

She glanced up with teary eyes at George who shrugged. “S’not that big a deal, Em.”

“No, no,” Fred interjected. “Don’t understate it, George. We can all tell you’re devastated.”

“You’re a right git, you know?” Emily’s throat was dry, and the words scratched along it as they slithered up her neck and out her mouth.

Violet reached over Emily to whack Fred’s arm. “She feels bad enough.”

“Jeez, Princey, I was just taking the mickey — you know, to make George feel better.” He thrust his hand onto her back with a ‘thud,’ probably harder than he had intended, and she jolted from the impact.

“Miss Prince,” the small voice came from behind her as a parchment envelope gently floated onto her plate at the table. She turned to see Professor Flitwick, as tall as she was sitting down, standing at the Ravenclaw table. Without moving, he dropped schedules to Violet, Patty, Amina, and Roger as well. Violet tore hers open rapidly, as if it were food and she had been starved.

“Thank you, Professor,” Emily replied, and she slipped a fingernail into the edge fold of the envelope to pull it open.

“And Misters Weasley, Mister Jordan,” Flitwick continued, shooting them a look that was friendly but stern. His voice was so squeaky and small that it was sometimes hard to take him seriously. As the twins had said before, it just had not threat to it. But respect was how Flitwick got his students to listen to him — and then threat was just not needed. “I would recommend that you three make your way back to your House table to receive your schedule from Professor McGonagall. She’ll likely not be happy to go looking for you.”

Lee Jordan promptly disappeared back to the Gryffindors while Flitwick continued down table Ravenclaw. The twins moved as if to get up, but then sat back down, more slouched and comfortable than before.

“What’ve you got?” Violet demanded, peering over Emily’s shoulder at the parchment in her hands.

Emily looked it over, eyes wandering over each class and Professor. Of course she had Charms again, N.E.W.T. level this time, and Transfiguration too. Arithmancy, Astronomy, Defence Against the Dark Arts. But most unexpectedly of all was the class that opened her week.

“Potions,” she said, and the words popped off her tongue like a surprise. Just to make sure she hadn’t misseen it, she looked again. “Double Potions, actually.”

Her Potions O.W.L. had been nothing short of a disaster. Where she usually succeeded — at least for the most part — in practical potion-making, the exam had required them to brew a successful Draught of Peace, and she barely stumbled her way through it. She added the powdered ingredients in small pinches for fear of throwing in too much, basic instructions be damned. Each was measured, calculated, careful, though that didn’t stop the potion from flashing through each colour of the rainbow until it settled at a deep shimmering turquoise. She’d be damned if she knew whether or not that was right; it sure didn’t help her anxiety any, nor that the Ministry Official who oversaw the exam made a face upon glancing into her cauldron. And that wasn’t even considering the written portion, where she had completed blanked about the Polyjuice Potion. Truly, there was no way she could have even passed the O.W.L., and she had expected the O listed on her results to have been in error.

But there it was — clear as crystal. Double Potions on Mondays, first thing in the morning, taught by Severus.

“You know what, George?”

“What, Fred?”

“Best thing about failing Potions is now we won’t have to see ol’ Snape’s greasy head anymore.” The two laughed to themselves, and Emily was secretly jealous, though she’d be loath to ever admit it.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mister Weasley.” A schedule floated onto Fred’s lap, and he slowly looked up to catch the harsh glare of Professor McGonagall. “Mister Weasley.” And there was a schedule for George as well.

As they each opened the envelopes and read through, their faces fell. “What?!”

“But we failed Potions!” George argued.

Fred added, “George got a Troll, even!”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “Since your practical results were, admittedly, astonishing, and since your failing the theory portion came from submitting blank written exams, Professor Snape has kindly, and begrudgingly, agreed to permit the both of you to take Potions this term.”

They groaned in protest, and Fred crumpled up the parchment into his hand.

With a wave of McGonagall’s wand, the paper was good as new. “You didn’t honestly believe you would be able to avoid taking any classes, did you?”

The two grumbled. “Well, this one yeah.”

Emily chuckled, covering her face with her hand to prevent the eruption of full-fledged hysterical laughter. As Professor McGonagall walked back to the Gryffindor table, with Lee’s schedule in tow, Emily wiped tears from her cheeks. “Serves you both right, you know.”

“Guess the bright side is you’ll finally have class with us!” came Violet’s pleasant suggestion.

“Bright and early,” Emily added, exaggerating some of the twins’ least favourite words.

“I can assure you now,” Fred began, a mischievous gleam in his eye, “that you two are going to _love_ class with me and George.”

“That a threat or a promise there, Fred?” Emily leaned with an elbow on the table as her eyes flickered up to meet his. “Because it’s not recommended to threaten a Prefect, you know.”

He rested his hand on hers. “Don’t let all that power go to your head, Princey.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s big enough already. You’ve said it before.”

“Won’t be enough room for your oversize brains.”

“Oh, hush, Fred; you’re so mean.”

From Emily’s left side, Violet cleared her throat. “So… what time are you boys meeting with Professor McGonagall?”

George peered down at his schedule before he replied, “Mine’s later today; middle of Herbology, by the looks of it.”

“Really? They stuck me with lunch. Don’t even get to miss classes.” Fred folded his arms across his chest with a dramatic, infantile pout.

“Pulled me this morning, so you’ll all miss me in Potions today.”

The group groaned in response, and Fred pulled a sickle out of his pocket.

“Give you my life savings to switch.”

Emily snorted. “You want to meet with Flitwick about my career prospectives? Honestly?”

By this time in the morning, the Great Hall was beginning to clear out. The first years, far more nervous and overwhelmed than the older students were the first to go, hoping to have plenty of time to wander the castle in search of their classes. They were fortunate not to have the stricter professors so early. Snape was saved for sixth year N.E.W.T. students, and McGonagall had fourth year Gryffindors and Slytherins. But even still, Emily’s nerves may have rivalled theirs — at least today, at least for this.

“Sure, if it gets me out of Potions,” Fred replied with a flippant shrug. “I’m thinking Burlesque dancer. Maybe a human target for Auror training.” He turned to Emily with a trademark shite-eating grin. “Stop me if anything strikes you.”

“I’ll strike you,” Emily replied and moved to whack him on the shoulder. “Arse.”

“I’ll strike the both of you if you don’t cut the flirting.” As Fred moved to rebut, Violet stood at the table and pushed her plate and mug forward. “C’mon now; time for Potions.”

And as the three walked toward to the dungeons, Emily left in the opposite direction towards the Charms classroom. But in the distance, she could hear Fred hiss, “It _wasn’t_ flirting!”


	9. Proclivity for Reckless Abandon

Emily barely had a hand up to knock on the door to the Charms classroom when she heard Flitwick’s voice ring out in an echo.

“Miss Prince! Do come in and have a seat.” There was a loud crashing noise heard from the back of the room, followed by Flitwick again. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

As she entered the Charms room, she was surprised by how much natural light the windows let in this early. She’d only ever been in Charms in the afternoon when the sun was at its worst, but it turned out it was bad even in the morning. There were stands of desks rising up in angles on each side of the classroom, each row leading down to where Flitwick stood on a stool, to make himself tall enough to be seen. With nobody in it, the classroom looked so much larger than it had been.

Flitwick’s desk—Emily realized now that Flitwick’s voice had, in fact, come from beneath it—was set in the centre of the room, covered with papers and parchment and various volumes of _The Standard Book of Spells_ , which served the students well through their O.W.L. year.

She took a seat on top of one of the student desks nearest the centre and struggled against the uneven weight of her bag until she let it down with a loud _thud_.

“Please excuse me; I made the unfortunate mistake of opening a Chocolate Frog while distracted, and I’m afraid it’s gone now, alas.” Flitwick crawled out from beneath his desk and climbed atop his stool in front of it. He reached behind him and grabbed a piece of parchment from the surface of his desk, examining it before he spoke. “I see you did rather well on your O.W.L.s last year. That O in Charms was well-deserved indeed.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Emily had a matching copy of her O.W.L.s results balled up in her fist and clutched it tight as if it were a good luck omen, a lucky rabbit’s foot she could rub to ease her nerves.

“You’ll surely have options aplenty, my dear. Have you given any thought to your plans after Hogwarts? Last year when we spoke you weren’t really sure.”

Her clammy hands found the fabric of her skirt and fiddled nervously with its hem. “Well, I had been thinking…” She paused, with a newfound awareness of the action, and flattened her skirt against her lap. “I was considering…” She took a deep breath and pursed her lips before looking toward Flitwick. “What would you suggest, Professor?”

“I said it last year, and I’ll say it again — there are plenty of jobs for a young lady of your aptitude. In fact, were I looking to retire soon, I’d recommend you for my post! But being only ninety-seven…” He shook his head with a deep chuckle. “I suppose it’s a bit irrelevant then, isn’t it?”

But Emily had hardly been listening.

She had done research over holiday about her career options, at Flitwick’s recommendation. She brought all of her information with her to Cannes and Nantes, hidden from her mother’s disapproving eyes, of course, reading through the travel and searching until something clicked. And then suddenly the answer was there, in front of her, as if it had been there the whole time.

“Professor…” Her voice quivered the slightest as she spoke. “What are the requirements for being an Auror?”

A wrinkle of surprise pressed itself into Flitwick’s forehead. “An Auror, my dear?”

“Well, I had been thinking that maybe I could work for the Ministry as an Auror, like my dad did.”

Flitwick sighed and said, “Ah, yes, your father… He _was_ an Auror.” He paused, examining Emily’s face before he continued, “It’s a rigorous program. You’ll need top marks in at least five subjects, and nothing lower than Exceeds Expectations. Though, looking at your marks, that won’t be much of a problem, I’m sure.”

A smile crept across Emily’s face. Just five classes? She was taking six, and she hadn’t gotten lower than Exceeds Expectations on any of those O.W.L.s. Why should the N.E.W.T. be any different?

“Still,” Flitwick went on, adjusting his glasses on his face, “this was admittedly not the response I had been expecting from you, Miss Prince. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I do tend to think of a certain _type_ of student as an Auror…”

Emily looked at him through knitted brows before her muscles loosened. “It’s really just a thought right now; I’m not sure —” She brushed her hair off of her face.

“One cannot waver on the decision to become an Auror.” Flitwick’s voice echoed through the emptiness of the Charms classroom, louder and harsher than she had remembered hearing it before, and every muscle in his face twitched in sync. “It is too dangerous a job; it can be deadly,” he said and his eyes flickered back up to her, “as you well know.”

Her father had died as an Auror, along with more than five dozen others. The story was still unfamiliar to her, but she _was_ told; she _did_ know. And her mind was screaming against the potential danger that the job required. Of course it was dangerous, of course it was deadly, she _did_ know that, but it was something she wanted.

He continued, “And with what happened at the World Cup… the Dark Mark appearing…more Death Eaters and Dark Wizards cropping up each day… I fear this world will only get _more_ dangerous for the Aurors.”

Emily couldn’t even find words to retort. He was right, though she didn’t want to admit it.

An empty sigh fell from her lips.

His voice softer this time, Flitwick spoke again. “I just mean to say, Miss Prince, that becoming an Auror is a challenge that must be wholeheartedly accepted and with no apprehension, if it is something you truly want. There is no place for fear amongst Aurors.”

She let out a deep breath and loosened her lips into a smile. “Surely you don’t subscribe to the belief that only Gryffindors can be brave, Professor.”

“Of course not! I’ve seen first-hand that that is most certainly not the case.” The corners of his mouth turned upward as he continued, “However, I will admit to the belief that many of Ravenclaw house do not have the proclivity for reckless abandon that Aurors do. Despite its name, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement does not actively look for those with a strong desire to follow rules.”

As a second-year prefect, Emily knew he was talking about her. _She_ lacked “reckless abandon.” _She_ followed and enforced rules. _She’d_ , it seemed, be likely to die at the hands of some crazed maniac… like her father had.

But maybe she _wouldn’t_.

From beneath furrowed brows, she argued, “If it came down to it, I —”

“I am not here to attack you, Miss Prince. I can only offer my suggestions, but the decision is ultimately your own. Sit for the Auror exam and give it your all. If a Ravenclaw puts her mind to something, there is little in this world that can stop her.” He adjusted his bow tie and sat up straighter on his tall stool. “Still, I had planned to suggest that you consider becoming an Obliviator.”

“A what?”

Professor Flitwick pulled a pamphlet from his desktop and handed it to Emily. “It’s important work, you know, and I remember that your Memory Charm is rather potent.”

“I put Stebbins in the hospital for two days!”

When they learned Memory Charms in class fifth year, Emily was partnered with Jared Stebbins, a quiet blond boy from Hufflepuff house. The goal for the lesson was to make their partner forget the past minute of time. Emily had panicked and hit Jared so hard he was knocked unconscious and developed a temporary amnesia so severe he didn’t know his own name. It took two days of intensive recovery in the hospital wing for the Charm to wear off. She got him a Rememberall as an apology, but he didn’t take too kindly to it.

“An unfortunate casualty, yes, but afterwards your Charms were impeccable — down to the millisecond. Truly marvellous.”

Emily twiddled her thumbs in her lap, her eyes flickering over the pamphlet and then back to Flitwick. Over his shoulder, she caught sight of another brochure, this one for an elite magical policing force — similar, she thought, to Aurors, but maybe less dangerous.

“What about the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol?” she asked, having spotted a pamphlet for that career on the corner of Flitwick’s desk.

He turned around and picked it up, looking it over briefly before directing Emily’s attention to the benefits, wherein it listed that each member of the Patrol was granted a regular bed at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She groaned and fell back against her chair.

“If I could say, I would prefer someone with your magical aptitude put your skills to significant use — perhaps…” He stopped suddenly, stroking his moustache, deep in thought. Then his eyes widened with idea. “Ah, yes!”

With a flick of his wand, Flitwick’s quill rose from its inkwell on his desk and danced over to her Obliviator pamphlet. At the top in a flowing script, it wrote ‘Accidental Magic Reversal Squad.’

“Do me a favour and look into this,” he said as another wave of his wand set his quill back in place. “I believe it may be an ideal solution, a chance to utilize your magical skill to its fullest potential without severe impending danger. A perfect compromise!”

Flitwick looked thrilled by this solution, but Emily just glanced down at her feet, scuffing the floor with the heel of her black shoes. There was an awkward silence that loomed in the Charms classroom like a cloud as it hung over her, reverberating in her ears.

“But I’ve kept you away from Potions for too long; I’m sure Professor Snape will have my head.”

Oh, right. Potions.

She uncrumpled her O.W.L. results from her fist and smoothed it out, staring, unflinching, at the O listed next to Potions. She hadn’t deserved it, surely, not with her performance.

“Speaking of Potions, Professor… um, how many jobs require it?”

“Well, generally, all of them. If not for the actual skill, then certainly for proof of a well-rounded candidate. But you’ve nothing to worry about if your O result is any indicator of your Potions skill.”

“I’m just afraid that the O might not be right.”

“I’m not one to disagree with Professor Snape, but I’m sure he’d be willing to discuss your marks with you, if you’d need.”

“Whatever your choice, my dear, I certainly wish you all the best.” He let out a beaming smiling, the sort of genuine act of affection that Emily admired, and shook her hand with both of his. “And if you see Mr. Davies on your way, please do let him know that I’m ready for him.”

>>>

Emily walked out of the Charms classroom, pulling the door shut behind her, and when she turned around to continue on her way to the dungeons, she nearly ran right over a tall brown-haired boy in Ravenclaw robes who greeted her with a polite, “Hi, Em.”

Roger Davies’s blue and bronze tie was loosened from around his neck, and the top button of his white shirt was open, drawing attention to his Adams apple and collarbone. His hair fell into his eyes, and he shook it out so that it splayed across his forehead.

“Oh, hi.” On instinct, she shoved her O.W.L. results into the pocket of her robes, hiding it from sight, and her fingers clung to the fabric of her sleeves. She glanced at Roger for only a moment before her eyes fell to the floor. “Um… Flitwick says he’s ready for you, just so you know.”

“Thanks. Where are you heading?”

“Potions.” She paused, then added, “Unfortunately.”

“That’s where I’m coming from!”

“Didn’t realize we had any classes together,” she said and slowly loosened her death-grip on her robe sleeves. Even just his presence had a way of quelling her anxieties. “I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Who knows, we might have a few.” He flashed a charming pearl-white grin her way, accompanied by a pair of slightly raised eyebrows as he offered, “If you want, I can show you my schedule tonight before patrols, and we’ll see what else we have together.”

“That sounds great.” A flush rose to her cheeks as she pulled her hair back so that it fell behind her shoulders, her bangs still hanging in her face.

“All right, great, yeah.” His voice was almost a stutter, but he quickly straightened himself up. “And, um, if I don’t see you back in Potions, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

She nodded, her curls bouncing with the motion against the bunched fabric of her robes. “Good luck with Flitwick.”

“Good luck with Snape,” he called over his shoulder as he moved to the classroom. “You’ll need it more than I will.”

Oh, right. Snape. Potions.

_Damn._

Though nothing in the world could have felt half as nice as being the object of Roger’s attention, as soon as she heard the door to the Charms classroom close behind him, she turned down the corridor and meandered down to Potions.

>>> 

When Emily got back to the dungeons, she was grateful to see that Violet and the twins had found seats near the door, with Violet in the front — of course — and the boys behind her. All of the students in the class were sitting in disconcerting silence, textbooks open on their desks, though few students, if any, were reading.

The open seat was next to Violet, so she slid into that one, hoping to sneak past Severus without him seeing her.

“Miss Prince,” his voice droned from the front of the room, “don’t think I didn’t notice your late entry into my class.”

“I was just — ”

“That’s _enough_.” His lips puckered before he spoke again. “The first chapter in your textbook. Silently.”

She pulled out her copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ from her bag and yanked it open. As her eyes took in the first chapter’s title, “The Ancient and Advanced Study of Potion-Making,” she groaned under her breath.

From her side, Violet whispered, “You’re lucky you missed the lecture about how bad our O.W.L.s were.”

Emily was careful to ensure her voice was practically inaudible to all but Violet as she hissed back to her, “But he requires an O just to get in!”

“We were all confused, too, but it seemed best to just let him go with it.”

“Got a penchant for the dramatic, that one,” George added from behind as he nodded toward Severus.

Fred leaned forward. “Don’t worry, though; we’ll get the chance to prove we’re not all dumb gits next class when we retake the bloody O.W.L.”

“… Can he _do_ that?” Emily asked.

Violet’s response was a blasé “Apparently.”

“Honestly, McGonagall could’ve thrown us into anything. I’d retake _Divination_ over Potions!”

“Hey! Divination’s not _that_ bad,” Emily whispered, but the boys ignored her.

“And how will we have time to perfect Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with all the homework he’s gonna assign?”

“Damn,” George said, leaning back in his chair, almost stunned, and pursed his lips. “I’d hardly considered that, Freddie.”

Violet scrunched up her nose. “I think that _may_ have been the point.”

“A futile effort, though, as I’m sure McGonagall realizes,” said Emily with a sardonic roll of her eyes.

“And if not, she certainly will.” A glimmer of mania shone in the twins’ eyes.

“You two have so much potential,” Emily said, her voice still a hushed whisper but now with a twinge of whine to it. “Why waste it making joke candies?”

“Simple, Princey — money.”

“Yeah, nobody pays us to do homework,” George agreed.

“If I started, would that keep you out of trouble?”

“Silly, Princey.” Fred twirled a finger through a lock of Emily’s hair, tangling himself up in the auburn ringlets, and when she hissed a harsh _ouch_ , he smirked. Violet’s laughter was muted from behind her hand as Fred whispered, his face mere centimetres away from Emily’s. “ _Nothing_ can keep us out of trouble.”

 “That’s what we’re afraid of.”

From the front of the room, Severus suddenly stood up, his chair scraping against the floor behind him. “Miss Prince, Miss Briggs, and Misters Weasley; is there something in the word _silent_ that makes it difficult for you to understand? Or perhaps you believe that you are, for whatever reason, above the rules I enforce in my classroom?”

The four looked at each other, uncertain of what to say that _might_ keep them out of further trouble.

Severus spoke again. “Ten points from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for each of you.”

The rest of the class was spent in silence — _real_ silence — as Severus hovered around the room, breathing down the necks of each student who so much as hiccoughed. And when it was finally over, everyone breathed a sigh of relief as they all rushed at the same time to the door.

Emily was almost halfway into the corridor when Severus drawl called her back, and her bag felt like an anchor over her body. “No so fast, Miss Prince.”

Fred, George, and Violet waved a quick bye and mentioned that they’d catch her in lunch later as they booked it down the hall. Grumbling under her breath, Emily trudged back to Severus’s desk, hitting her feet hard against the stone floor with each step. “Yes, Professor?”

“I feel the need to remind you that being a bright pupil and second year prefect will not excuse you for poor behaviour.” There were deep lines carved into the skin of his face. “Disobedience… tardiness…”

“You knew I had my meeting with Professor Flitwick this morning,” she said and adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“I did.”

“So why am I in trouble for tardiness?”

His mouth turned to a sneer as he replied, “There is no favouritism in my classes. Surely you know that by now.”

“Then how am I still _in_ your class?” She pulled the crinkled copy of her O.W.L. results from her pocket and slapped it against his desk. “I failed your O.W.L.”

“Don’t be absurd. You got an Outstanding. Clearly.” His narrow, bony finger tapped against the grade on the parchment.

She inched forward towards him, almost defiant in tone as she spoke. “My brew was a disaster, and you know it.”

“Your brew was excellent,” he said but didn’t look up from the paper.

Emily scoffed. “It didn’t work to calm my nerves at all.”

“Too much exposure dilutes the potency, as you ought to know from class.”

“I saw the proctor’s face,” she argued. “It was all wrong!”

“That oaf from the Ministry wouldn’t know a Calming Draught from a Pepper-Up Potion. He deferred entirely to my judgment. And I graded as I saw fit.”

With a sigh, she folded her arms against her chest. “Even still, my essay was an incomprehensible mess.”

His eyes flickered up to look at her and then back down as he said, “Substandard for your usual, I will admit.”

Emily threw her arms up on reflex. “Exactly! Probably an A, maybe an E, but never an O.” Her shoulders dropped as her arms fell back to her sides, and she ran a hand through her hair. “Honestly, I want to do this on my own, not with your generosity.”

“I am hardly known to be the generous type.”

Her gaze was hard-met, and she straightener herself up, still too short to be even with him. “If I didn’t make the grade on my own merit, then remove me from the class.”

“You know I couldn’t do that.” His skin was sallow, stretched taught across his face, every bone sharp and angled and severe.

“Then I’ll go to Professor Dumbledore and remove myself,” she said. She pulled the strap of her bag tighter to lessen its load and turned as if she were moving to leave.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

A laugh caught itself in Emily’s throat, and she said, “What, are you using your class to _nanny_ me? I’m not a child, Severus!”

As soon as his name escaped her mouth, she wished she could grab it out of the air and swallow it back up before it reached him. But it was too late — it already had.

And his face grew dark and hardened as he growled, “You will _never_ call me that again.”

She crumpled in upon herself, mousey beneath his towering shadow. “Yes, sir.”

“No one is in this class who does not deserve to be in this class. Beyond that, I feel no obligation to detail the intricacies of my grading.” He paused and looked up at her with challenging eyes. “That’s the last word I’ll have on this, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” She turned to flee at her first opportunity, the moment he sat down at his deskchair again. Her bag held her back with its heft as she rushed to the door, her fingers wrapping around the knob, and she pulled it open as quickly as possible.

“Wait.” His cold voice stopped her in her tracks, and with a wave of Severus’s hand, the door slammed shut, yanking Emily’s arm with it. “What’s this I hear about Aurors?”

“I told Professor Flitwick that I’d like to become an Auror after Hogwarts,” she explained and rubbed her elbow where the door had pulled too hard, and Severus flinched against the statement.

“You ridiculous girl,” he spat, shooting up from his desk chair, “what makes you think you ought to be an Auror?”

The challenging sentiment caught her by surprise for the second time today. Still reeling from Flitwick’s near-insistence that she was hardly Auror material, it shouldn’t have caught her so off-guard that Severus was also vehement against the idea. For her mother’s sake, she was sure. And to a certain extent, that made sense—at least as much as Severus ever could. “Well, my father was one, and —”

Severus slammed a closed fist hard against his desktop, and Emily jumped back in response. “I know damn well what your father was, and now he’s dead.”

She didn’t remember ever seeing him so angry. His ashen complexion was lit up with splotches of red, and his teeth, crooked and yellowing, were bared out at her like fangs. She could see his whole body rise and fall against his breaths, his eyes narrowing down at her as she opened her mouth to speak.

Paralyzed, Emily could only stammer, “But I —”

“Do not treat this as some sort of outrageous game.” He pushed his chair back to the desk and walked around to come face-to-face with her. “There is real danger involved in being an Auror, and contrary to your smug self-confidence, you are _not_ invincible.”

“That doesn’t stop anyone else,” Emily argued, her newfound confidence propelling her forward. “It didn’t stop my father.”

“Your father was an insufferable, self-serving know-it-all with a superiority complex, and so are you.”

Emily collapsed under the weight of his accusation, though she didn’t know if she were more insulted by the claim that those things applied to her or that they had applied to her father. Her face went white, her jaw tight, her fists clenched and trembling as she stared down at the floor with tears brimming the edges of her eyes, threatening to stain her cheeks as they burned with embarrassment.

Severus continued, “And for your concerning lack of respect, I’ll see you tonight for detention in my classroom.”

“I have prefect patrols tonight,” she countered.

“Then you’ll serve it before patrols.”

She thought about Roger and how they had planned to meet up later that night. She thought about sitting next to him on one of the velvety blue sofas in the Ravenclaw common room as they passed their schedules back-and-forth between each other and talked until they needed to leave.

From out of her daze, she said, “I have things to do before then.”

“Perhaps you ought to have considered that before you showed such blatant disrepute.”

With a shaky breath and against clenched teeth, she replied, “I’m truly sorry, Professor.”

He didn’t look up, didn’t turn to her, hardly even acknowledged that she was there. But as she turned to walk away, dragging her schoolbag behind her, the heels of her uniform shoes scuffing the ground with each shuffling step, she heard him reply, “As you well should be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! It's my birthday today, so you, my lucky readers, get the gift of a new chapter! As always, feedback is welcome! :)
> 
> P.S. Emily has her own Pottermore account, and it determined that her Patronus was a stoat, which is a type of weasel! The symbolism was just too perfect. (Mine's a Borzoi, if anyone cares.) Her happiest memory — well, one of them — was her first Hogsmeade trip and getting Butterbeers with Violet and the boys in third year.


	10. The Exception that Proves the Rule

Emily trudged back up the stairs toward the Divination classroom in the North Tower, her feet scuffing against the stone with each step. Her hand was clenched so tightly around the strap of her bag that her fingers were going numb.

 

“Oi!” a voice called out, echoing through the stairwell. “Wait up!”

 

She could hear the thumping footsteps speeding up behind her, shoes slapping hard against the floor gracelessly, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop moving, lest she lose the will to move altogether. The clock had already rung out that she was late, announced it to the world, mocking her as she travelled from Potions.

 

Ugh, Potions. She felt anger-fuelled heat rise in her cheeks upon the thought of it.

 

“Hey!” the voice called again, much closer this time — he had nearly caught up to her from the bottom of the stairwell. “I’m _talking_ to you, Princey; no need to be so rude.”

 

“What do you want?” she demanded as she spun around to face him, and the realization hit her quickly that her tone was harsher than anticipated.

 

At first, he looked almost afraid — his eyes a bit buggy, his mouth the slightest agape. But then he chuckled, and it melted away. “Wherever you’re headed, you’re late… and you sort of look like a car hit you.”

 

“Yeah, thanks.” She turned back and continued walking; he followed her. “And, by the way, I’m going to Divination, which is the only class up this way.”

 

“You can’t go in like _this_!” He moved his hand wildly through the air in front of her. “Trelawny’ll go batty!” He flipped his hands over his face like face spectacles and spoke in a breathy, strained voice. “Your aura! All of this negative energy… the _spirits_!”

 

His Trelawny impression, she had to admit, was pretty spot on — despite not having had Divination since third year. She wondered why it was he was even up this way in the first place, but she shook the question from her mind. It was just as likely he had planted a prank for an unsuspecting Slytherin fourth year to stumble upon.

 

Through breaks of laughter as he finally stopped mumbling mock-prophetic nonsense, she said, “She doesn’t talk about _the spirits_ , you nutter.”

 

He rolled his eyes with a playful huff. “Whatever, it’s all rubbish anyway.”

 

They were nearing the landing now, and she felt a pang of disappointment that she’d have to leave to go to Divination.

 

“Well, what’re you doing that’s so much better?” she asked. She leaned casually against the stone wall at the top of the stairway once they reached the landing and let her bag slip off her shoulder with a heavy ‘thud.’ _Very ‘devil may care’ of her_ , she thought…

 

His eyes twinkled with mischievous enthusiasm. “Anything I want.” It took a few moments of Emily’s confused blinking for him to clarify. “I’ve got a free period, so I’ll probably be developing product. And you’re welcome to join me… though skipping class wouldn’t be very _prefecty_.”

 

“I’d love to,” she said before she even realized the words came out. With a beaming grin, Fred moved closer to her, resting a hand next to where she stood on the wall as he stood in front of her, his neck craned over her. She looked up at him and composed herself, readjusted her bag on her shoulder. “…But I, uh, I can’t.”

 

Emily hadn’t noticed how excited he had become at the prospect until she saw his face fall.

 

She quickly added, “I’m sorry.”

 

“What? No, it’s no problem. Maybe later then, eh?”

 

She shook her head and ducked out from under his arm. “Patrols tonight.”

 

“Before then?” he asked, turning to face her.

 

With a sigh, she admitted, “Detention.”

 

“Already? Merlin, you should’ve failed out of Potions and avoided it like the plague.”

 

She raised a brow. “That’s what you did, and you’re there too.”

 

He shrugged and said, “There’s my luck for you.”

 

“On the bright side, Freddie,” she started with a beaming grin and tilted her head to the side, “it’s just another chance for you to see my lovely face.”

 

The corners of his lips upturned and he chuckled. “How right you are.”

 

She scrunched up her nose at his response. “You don’t have to be so sarcastic, you arse.” Her hand was resting on the doorknob to the Divination classroom, gripping it tight but hesitant to turn it. “I really do have to go now, though.”

 

He ruffled his fingers through her hair to muss it up before turning back to the stairs. “I’ll see you later, Princey.”

 

>>> 

 

After Divination had finished, the Great Hall filled to its brim with students for lunchtime. As she headed to the Ravenclaw table, Emily saw Fred walk into the room with a roll of parchment paper balled into his fists — product notes to show George and Lee, no doubt. And she saw George and Lee heading in from the greenhouses accompanied by Violet and, though a bit further off and in a conversation of his own with Cedric Diggory, Roger.

 

 _Gosh_ , she didn’t want to have to tell him that she had detention, and she sure as hell didn’t want to cancel seeing him later. But surely it was only right…

 

She slipped past her friends and made a beeline straight toward Roger, greeting him with a stiff, awkward “Hey.” He was polite, as always, and matched her salutation, though his seemed less awkward than her own.

 

“What’s up, Em?”

 

“I… um, I have a detention.” She spat out the words as fast as she could, as if it could make them taste less horrible, even though it didn’t. She didn’t look him in the eyes as they both meandered through the crowd of students. Perhaps the noise might have drowned it out.

 

“You? A detention?” Roger set his books down at the end of the Ravenclaw table, the ‘thud’ punctuating his questions. “Who from?”

 

Emily sighed. “Professor Snape. Which I’m sure is completely shocking.”

 

“What for?”

 

She turned to him pleadingly and asked, almost in a whimper, “Would you believe me if I said I did _nothing_ wrong?”

 

He chuckled and leaned his backside against the table’s edge. “I dunno; you’re pretty crafty…”

 

Emily jumped to her own defence. “Honestly I didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“Yeah, no, I definitely believe you,” Roger replied with sarcasm coating his voice, and she caught a glimpse of his perfect teeth from behind his lips. She shot him a disapproving look as she fidgeted awkwardly next to him, and he continued, “It’s fine, though; detentions happen all the time, I guess… you know, to _some_ people.”

 

She glanced back at him with wide-eyed surprise. “Are you trying to tell me that in five whole years you’ve never had a detention?”

 

“Not one,” he said with a proud beam.

 

“That’s just mad. Really, you’re joking.”

 

He shook his head. “Not a single time.”

 

Emily let out a playful scoff. “How is that even possible?”

 

“When you’re a good kid, nobody bothers you,” he said and winked light-heartedly. She chuckled, and then his features became more serious. “If you’re so embarrassed about it, though, why tell me at all?”

 

She could feel her face paling as she struggled to phrase her explanation. Had he already forgotten their plans? She knew it wasn’t terribly serious — just talking in the common room — but she now feared that she had placed too much stock in it all.

 

“I just… we had a… thing tonight, and I didn’t want you to think I blew you off.”

 

“A thing?” He looked at her with furrowed brows and creases along his forehead.

 

She corrected herself as she shifted her bag on her shoulder. “I mean, it’s not a _big_ thing — y’know, not like a _thing_ — but we were going to talk, I thought, and I didn’t want it in your head that I didn’t come because I didn’t _want_ to come.”

 

“Ah.” Roger nodded, more to himself than as a response to her. Then his eyes flickered back over her face. “Who says it’s not a thing though? Who’s the keeper of the criteria for if something’s a thing?”

 

Nervously, Emily ran her hand through her hair. “Discussing schedules in the common room? That’s just — it’s not _really_ a thing; it’s just…”

 

“Hanging out?” he offered, and when she nodded her head, he continued, “Well, why can’t that be a thing?”

 

She let out a big huff of air. “That’s not the kind of thing I meant.”

 

A flicker of a smirk contorted his mouth. “What’d you mean, then, like a date?”

 

“No!” She felt all of her breath leave her body at once.

 

“Like a date _thing_?” he repeated, and the smirk erupted into a full smile.

 

She was careful to keep her voice down, maintaining the discretion of their conversation, because although the Great Hall was loud, especially at lunch, all it took was a stray set of ears to cause some trouble.

 

“No, not a _date_ thing; just a thing — not a date!”

 

Roger paused for a moment, looking pensive as he thought, his hand on his chin stroking facial hair he didn’t have. “Yeah, no, I’ve got to tell you, Em, this is going completely over my head.”

 

Emily ran her teeth over her bottom lip and bit down harder than she had expected. “I just wanted you to know that I would’ve been there if I could’ve been. That’s all. And _if_ you’d be okay with it and if you _wanted_ to, I’d like to maybe reschedule it… I’m free tomorrow after breakfast.”

 

“That sounds good,” Roger said.

 

She breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Great.”

 

“But here’s my question, Em. If it’s not a _thing_ , why’d we need to schedule it at all?” A smile crossed Roger’s face as Emily stood silent, dumbfounded. He adjusted his books on the table and moved to sit down, clearing a spot for Emily until he heard a cacophony of voices calling out for her — coming from where Violet and the boys sat at the other end of the table. “I think your friends are looking for you.”

 

From over his shoulder, she saw them all, and she caught their eyes in return. “Oh, them?” A light chortle slipped past her lips with a huff of air. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

“See you later.”

 

Passing a polite ‘bye’ to Roger, Emily made her way to the far end of the Ravenclaw table, where Violet had saved her a seat. They had all stared at her, been staring since they saw her talking to him.

 

“ _What_ was that?” While Violet’s face beamed with sheer excitement, the twins’ and Lee’s faces were contorted with confusion.

 

Emily rolled her eyes as her body filled the empty space. Her plate filled itself too. “We were just talking.”

 

“Yeah, but about what?” Violet’s eyes widened, and she looked almost manic.

 

Emily tried to fight the blush that crept into her cheeks as she shuffled green beans around on her plate. “Well, we sort of had plans to hang out tonight, and —”

 

“I thought you had _detention_ tonight.” Fred’s voice snapped like a whip into the air.

 

“I do,” she said, and as she jerked around to face him, her hair slammed against her back in a cascading wave of auburn. “That’s what we were talking about.”

 

“Detention? Already?” Violet sounded disappointed but hardly surprised. “Really, Em, you’d do best to never stay after class anymore. It only gets you into trouble.”

 

Emily shrugged and swallowed a forkful of mash. “Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

 

“What plans did you have?” Fred asked. He looked as though he had been holding on to the question for a while.

 

She raised a brow at him. “What’s it matter? It was just talking schedules; that’s it.”

 

Violet smirked, stabbing her fork through a tender slice of chicken. “You all right, Freddie? You look a bit green.”

 

Emily’s eyes matched up to his, and she set a hand gently on his arm. “You know I wouldn’t have lied to you.” Then she smiled playfully and added, “It’s just not my way.”

 

He moved his arm, nudging her hand off of it, before draping it over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, your way.”

 

The space next to him was warm, and she fit snugly under the nook of his arm. She was tempted to rest her head against him, for just a moment — it was so comfortable, after all — but she didn’t. She leaned forward over the table and swallowed a bite of beans.

 

“You know,” Emily finally said, pushing her plate out in front of her, “it’s a pity you two didn’t manage a detention today. It could’ve been like old times.”

 

And the boys turned to each other with beaming grins.

 

“Oh, but Princey…”

 

“… the day is still so young.”

 

>>> 

 

Unfortunately for Emily, the twins did _not_ manage to get detention — though if Violet’s report was to be believed, it was certainly not for lack of trying. They had left dungbombs in the third floor boys’ lavatory and set off a firecracker in an empty classroom — all to the receipt of a lacklustre response from both Severus and Filch. Rather than detention, Gryffindor suffered a rather shameful deduction of all of the points they had earned so far this term.

 

So Emily suffered detention alone.

 

But even still, it wasn’t terrible — it wasn’t ever that bad, Severus made sure of that. Oftentimes it was an essay or a potion brew; sometimes she had to organize files and books and ingredients in the classroom or in Severus’s office. Today, however, she was told to study the Polyjuice Potion in preparation for the O.W.L. retake next class — essentially a mandatory guided study period with Severus standing over her shoulder for an hour. And after that, she had prefect patrols, which was arguably much worse than detention.

 

Emily had always hated patrolling the corridors at night. In the shadows of the moonlight, the castle looked especially old and eerie. The doors creaked more loudly when the halls were empty, and with each step further into candlelit darkness, Emily sucked more air into her lungs that she always forgot to exhale.

 

She was on the fourth floor when a shadow sped past her, just out of the corner of her eye.

 

_Shite, shite, shite…_

 

Her chest pounded with the resounding flutter of her heartbeat as she struggled to catch her breath. Each step further in was measured, calculated, careful.

 

The shadow moved again, chilling the air around her in its wake, and for once curiosity got the better of her as she followed the cold to its source. She caught the shadow as it rounded another corner, coming face-to-face with her so that she could finally get a clear look at it.

 

“Boo!” it said, and upon hearing her terrified shriek, let out a fit of howling laughter.

 

“Peeves, dammit,” she groaned, clutching her chest in a desperate attempt to quiet her flooding pulse. Meanwhile, a pair of orange eyes stared back at her from beneath a bobbly, bell-tipped hat. The poltergeist’s sallow skin starkly contrasted the bright red of his knickers. “You scared the devil out of me, you bloody menace!”

 

“You’re too easy, Prince,” he hooted and floated down the corridor opposite her. “Too easy…”

 

“Don’t you ever get tired of being such a pest?” she demanded, and he about-turned, spinning to face her again.

 

“Me? Never!” He sneered at her with pointed, fanglike teeth. “Don’t you ever get sick of being a know-it-all do-good type?”

 

“Rarely,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

 

“Heh.” He slapped a cold, calloused hand gently against her face. “Just between you ‘n me, Prince, I would _not_ go down that hallway.”

 

She followed his outstretched finger, pointing at the corridor from which he had just come — the very one she was about to go down herself.

 

Emily stood up straight to challenge him. “Yeah? And why not?”

 

“You wouldn’t like it,” he said and grinned, crossing his legs in the air. “You trust me, don’t you?”

 

She didn’t, of course. Not one bit.

 

And she was smart enough to figure out it was either a lure to get her into that corridor or a lure to get her away — though which one, she couldn’t say with any degree of certainty. Either way, it was no good.

 

Floating in the air, Peeves leaned himself back, as if resting on a cloud in the shape of a sofa, and continued to laugh as Emily grappled with her options.

 

She waited until Peeves was out of sight before peering down the dark corridor opposite her planned route. It was difficult to see much of anything, even with the added illumination of her wand tip. Who knew what could be down that way?

 

She certainly didn’t want to find out.

 

So she turned around and went back to her course. With each step, she wondered just what it was that Peeves had up his sleeve down the other hall.

 

She thought about turning back around to the find out when her forward step triggered mini explosions ‘popping’ beneath her feet. An involuntary shriek escaped Emily’s lips as she tried to rush past the explosions, and she breathed a sigh of relief when they finally stopped until something — something _sticky_ — fell atop her from the ceiling.

 

When she looked into the end of the corner, she caught sight of red hair — the obvious culprits, regardless of Peeves’s involvement.

 

She moved down the hallway toward them and demanded, her voice louder than any of them expected, “Honestly, do you two have _any_ idea how dangerous this is? And in the middle of the night!”

 

George groaned, and Fred called out, “Peeves, you bastard — you got the wrong pratty prefect!”

 

“Tried to tell her she wouldn’t like it!” Peeves’s voice echoed at the other end of the corridor, “But makes no difference to me; I’m laughing either way!”

 

Once all of the immediate terror was over, Emily took stock of the results. She was soaked to the skin with a pinkish slime that slicked down along her figure and fell against the floor with a revolting ‘plop.’ It coated her hair and stuck thick against her skin — she could even feel it in her socks. Her shoes were slightly charred at the soles from having danced along the firecracker pods that erupted beneath her feet.

 

“What even _is_ this?” she asked, wiping the slime from her face.

 

“Precautionary measures,” said Fred nonchalantly. He scooted himself into the main corridor, blocking Emily from the corner.

 

“Don’t worry,” added George as he moved closer to Fred. “It dries clear. Leaves no residue!”

 

But she was already bordering on furious. It was a miracle that the steam coming out of her ears didn’t dry the slime straight away. And whatever they were trying to hide from her…

 

Before she could open her mouth to yell at them again, they jumped in. “You’ve got to learn to loosen up, Princey.”

 

“Please, for our sake,” added George. “We get a bad rap being friends with you.”

 

“For your sake?” She was indignant with each step she took toward them.

 

“Yours too,” said Fred. “Could probably do your blood pressure a load of good.”

 

Emily narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw at them with additional step, and then she saw it.

 

“And what’s this?” The two were huddled over a lit cauldron on the middle of the floor of a fourth floor corridor. They had long since abandoned their sleeves rolled up. A Potions text was set between them, opened to what looked to be Chapter 13, and they were surrounded by various potions ingredients scattered about the floor. “What trouble are you getting into now?”

 

“Brewing an ageing potion,” George answered nonchalantly.

 

Taken aback by his honestly, Emily’s eyes widened. Then, she groaned. “Why can’t you ever lie to me? Sometimes I’d prefer it.”

 

“Because if we lie to you, then you can’t bail us out of trouble.”

 

“I don’t bail you out,” she argued. “I simply choose not to enact the full force of the punishment.” She paused, stuck with sudden realization. “Besides, what do you lot need an ageing potion for?”

 

“Because we ain’t seventeen yet,” George answered, and Fred nudged him hard in the ribs.

 

“And what does that —?” She broke her own thought and snapped, “Wait… you want to enter to Tournament.”

 

Both boys stared blankly at her.

 

“Yes.”

 

“We thought that was abundantly clear.”

 

For a moment, she lost herself in pensive thought, and her eyes focused on the cauldron. “But the Tournament’s not until next month. Why’re you—?”

 

“Because, you numpty,” Fred started, and Emily realized she’d never heard him sound so matter-of-fact. “You need to start brewing an ageing potion at the start of the cycle of the first full moon of the month. So we nicked Lee’s moon chart to check.” He waived the chart in his hand.

 

“And it turns out that’s today.” George pointed to the date on the chart.

 

“And since it takes a month to brew…”

 

Emily had to admit, though she didn’t want to, she was impressed. It was rare to see the twins work so hard on, well, anything.

 

“How do you know all of that?” she asked. “We won’t cover ageing potions until—”

 

Fred’s lips curled into a half-smile. “I read when I have to.”

 

“But why?” Emily sighed. “I mean, do you really want to enter the Tournament this badly?”

 

“Of course we do!” George admitted, stirring the cauldron twice anticlockwise.

 

“Everyone does!”

 

She glared at them with hard, serious lines etched into her forehead. “ _Not_ everyone.”

 

“Well then, you’re exceptional,” said Fred as a smile dawned across his lips.

 

“The phrase is ‘the exception’,” Emily replied. “Y’know, as in ‘the exception that proves the rule.’”

 

Fred shrugged. “Sure.”

 

“C’mon, Em,” George mused as he tossed a pinch of what smelled like garlic into the brew. “Think of it: the glory…”

 

“And the gold!” Fred added. He stirred the mixture again until it bubbled and turned a deep shade of burgundy. “A thousand Galleons!”

 

She set her hands on her hips and leaned against the wall. “I’ll give you a thousand Galleons if you promise you won’t enter.”

 

“And let all of this _actual work_ go to waste?” Fred chuckled. “No can do, Princey.”

 

George looked up from the Potions text laid out in front of them on the floor. “Besides you don’t even have a thousand Galleons.”

 

Emily pursed her lips in brief contemplation. “Fair enough. But,” she said and put her hand over her heart to highlight her vow, “I swear that as soon as I start making that kind of money, I will gladly repay my debt to you — with interest!”

 

“We’re not stupid,” George argued.

 

Fred said, “And even if we were, we still _want_ to enter.”

 

“Why?” Emily asked, exasperated.

 

“Whoever wins will be immortalized in history!”

 

“How wicked would that be?”

 

“Well worth the risk of lost limbs or, y’know, dying.”

 

 _Jeeez_ , she thought, if anyone knew reckless abandon, it was these two. She hadn’t seen anyone more eager to risk literal life and limb for a small fortune. No fear, no trepidation even — just an admirably stupid impulse to dive headfirst into the single most dangerous competition in centuries. But that was always true of the twins, Tournament be damned. They were kin with recklessness and related rather distantly to consequence, though they seemed not on speaking terms at present. And she’d bet McGonagall recommended them for aurors for the very reason she was essentially rejected.

 

Clearly she had a lot still to learn.

 

“Where’s Lee? He was supposed to be quick!” George asked his brother in a hushed whisper that sounded more like a hiss. It wasn’t meant for Emily to hear, but George was loud enough that she did anyway. Fred walloped his brother hard with the back of his hand in response, but it was too late — the jig was up.

 

“Yes, where _is_ your first mate?” asked Emily, crossing her arms over her chest as she stood over top of them.

 

The twins wore matching shite-eating grins. “You mean our _best_ mate?”

 

“We’re looking at her!”

 

“Flattering,” she replied, shooting a stern look to each of them, “but really, where’s Lee?”

 

The twins looked between each other and then back to Emily as if they were guilty children caught with their hands in a cookie jar.

 

“Well, you see…” George struggled to find the words. “An ageing potion requires a long list of ingredients…”

 

“… Some of which are,” Fred continued, “difficult to acquire…”

 

Neither one said anything more about it, but they didn’t have to. Emily had already pieced together what had happened to Lee. She could only imagine that her detention, even the worst one she’d ever got, would be nothing in comparison to what Lee would receive for getting caught stealing from Severus’s stores. She could hardly believe the twins letting Lee be so reckless.

 

_Reckless._

 

The word stopped her in her tracks. This sort of stupid plan was just the sort of recklessness she often avoided and, frankly, lacked. And she could be reckless too. She could prove it.

 

Lee wasn’t careful. Lee didn’t know how Severus kept his stores. But Emily had organized and reorganized them in several rounds of detention last term. With her eyes closed, she could pick out gillyweed or Graphorn horn from their spots on the shelves, distinguish a dragon egg from a Runespoor egg, find a Billywig sting and its slime in the back corners of his office. But it wasn’t very _prefecty_ , as Fred would say, to attempt stealing from a professor’s private collection.

 

Still, maybe this was her chance to prove it, to herself and to anyone else who cared: she _could so_ be reckless.

 

Finally, she said, “I’ll get them for you.”

 

“Excuse me?” George’s eyebrows rose in surprise while Fred lowered his.

 

“What’s the catch?” he demanded.

 

“You’ve got to make enough for me too,” she said and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her robes.

 

“Are you serious?” George asked. For a moment there was a twinkle of excitement in his eyes.

 

Fred, less so. He jumped up from his seat on the floor to meet her eyes. “Are you _mad_?”

 

George stood up too, though he glanced quickly at the bubbling cauldron before he did. “I thought the Tournament was stupid…”

 

“It is,” she said, and when they both moved to cut her off, she continued, “but it’s _just_ the sort of stupid that will help me develop a proclivity for reckless abandon.” As she finished talking, she beamed.

 

“A… what for what?”

 

“It’s apparently a requisite for becoming an auror.”

 

Fred studied her and then moved to set a hand on her shoulder. “As your friends, we can’t let you do this.”

 

“No way,” George agreed.

 

Emily let out a frustrated huff. “Why not?”

 

“You’ve clearly gone batty,” Fred replied, “and we can’t take advantage of you in this state.”

 

George nodded in solidarity with his brother. “And we won’t let you steal from Snape, though I’d rather you than me; Merlin knows we don’t want that job.”

 

With pursed lips and a furrowed brow, Emily asked, “Aren’t you the ones who _just_ told me that I’m too uptight?”

 

“Yes,” Fred replied. “That was us.”

 

She stood up straighter, got further into their faces. “That I take things too seriously?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That I need to loosen up?” Her nose was mere centimetres away from theirs as she stood on her tiptoes to reach closer to their height.

 

Fred threw his arms up wildly. “But at what cost?”

 

“This is terrifying,” said George, and he pat her on the back, “even to us.”

 

“We’ve got to draw the line somewhere.” Fred bent down and closed the Potions text, while George condensed their ingredients to one small pile.

 

“So it’s here. Now.”

 

The two ushered Emily down the corridor and towards the stairs, swearing up and down that they would stay out of trouble, and the last thing Emily saw was the light flicker of flame from beneath the brew of their ageing potion.


	11. A Good Defence

Emily awoke the next morning to Violet’s shadow hovering over her. She jumped upright and let out an involuntary yawn, stretching until she heard a tell-tale crack.

“Roger’s downstairs in the common room for you,” Violet said, flashing her teeth in an excited smile.

“Already?” Emily felt her stomach toss, felt her breath catch in her throat. She brushed a trembling hand through her hair, wincing when she caught a knot. “Oh, God.”

“Lemme help you.” Violet bent down into Emily’s trunk and pulled out a pair of denim jeans and a dark purple jumper. As she set them on the bed, she said, “This one brings out the green in your eyes.”

Emily grabbed the clothes, shot her friend a grateful smile, and rushed off to the girls’ lavatory. When she came back, her nerves were on fire. Was her jumper too tight? Was her hair frizzy?

“Stop panicking,” Violet said as she brushed some gloss onto Emily’s lips.

“I’m not,” Emily tried to argue, but it was no use; Violet saw right through her.

The two walked together down the stairs and into the common room. There, Roger sat on the middlemost sofa, a book in his hands; Emily saw the phrase ‘Triwizard Tournament’ on its cover. He was so still he could’ve been mistaken for a statue with the whole common room moving around him. Violet prodded Emily towards him, despite all silent protestations.

As she took a seat on the sofa, Emily was able to spit out a quiet ‘Hi.’

The space next to Roger was colder than she expected when she sat, and she snuggled further into her jumper to keep warm. She shot an imploring glance at Violet, who ignored her.

“Oh, hi,” Roger said suddenly and snapped the book closed, as if her presence startled him. He tried to recover with the shot of a charming smile.

Emily stopped herself before she pulled out her schedule. “Is now a bad time? ‘Cause I can always come back…”

“No, no, this is good,” he replied and picked up his timetable from the side table, setting his book down in its place. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” She pulled hers from her pocket and set it on her lap, tapping her fingernails against it anxiously.

“Good.”

As the room began to empty, Emily could feel her own breath starting to strangle her in her throat. Though it was surely ephemeral, she felt a pulsing need to fill the silence before it suffocated her.

She turned to Violet and then back to Roger.

“You know, I’m sure Violet’s got some classes with us too,” Emily said, her voice shaky. The sound of it caught Violet’s attention and pulled her around until she met Emily’s pleading eyes.

Violet pursed her lips in an apologetic frown. “I’ve got plans. But you know my schedule, Em, so you can just let me know later.”

And with a wave, she was gone.

It was just Roger and Emily in the common room. Alone.

Alone — even just the word ignited her nerves.

She tried to rationalize with herself: this was no big deal, just two friends comparing schedules; that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

A gentle nudge to the arm brought her back to reality, and Emily passed her timetable to Roger, taking his in return. Each studied the other’s for a bit, comparing to the memory of their own.

After a moment of reviewing her class list, Roger turned to her and said, “Divination? Really?”

Her hair fell over her face as she looked up at him, saying, “Yeah, why?”

He shrugged. “Just didn’t realize you were the sort.”

“What d’you mean ‘the sort’?”

“Nothing!” he said, but she maintained her gaze until he broke. “Just… I think Divination’s rubbish, is all.”

“It’s not rubbish,” Emily argued, turning to face him more fully on the sofa. “It’s fun!”

“I’d rather sit through History of Magic again all year than go to even one more Divination class.” He shuddered at the thought.

“It’s not that bad,” she said and smiled without realizing it. “Actually, nothing is that bad.”

Roger began to chuckle. “Fair enough, I guess.”

Emily could feel the impending brew of awkward silence bubbling around them and headed it off before it could infiltrate their conversation. She glanced back down at his schedule quickly. “Looks like it’s only Potions and Charms.”

Roger leaned back against the embroidered throw pillows and groaned. “I was hoping for more.”

Emily didn’t look up and instead focused on his schedule. “You’ve Herbology, Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms with Violet though,” she said, her voice the slightest bit shaky as she rattled off from memory. “Potions and Charms with Fred and Herbology with George, but you had Herbology yesterday, so you already knew that…”

“Yeah,” Roger said and repeated, “But I only have Potions and Charms with you. That’s bollocks.” He leaned closer to her, and she felt her body straighten.

She had finally begun to feel somewhat at-ease until Roger moved toward her. Why was he sitting so close? She tried to set the thought in the back of her mind, but it kept nagging at her.

“You know,” Roger said, now wearing a playful grin that covered up his dejection, “none of this would’ve happened if you took Herbology instead of Divination.”

She giggled in response, let her muscles relax a bit, and sarcastically said, “Yeah, like I ever had a choice.” And when he looked at her confused, she explained, “I’m rubbish at Herbology.”

“I could’ve tutored you,” he said and leaned forward again, closer still this time.

“George did last year, but… I really am that bad.”

“I think you and I could’ve managed,” he said, and Emily swore she saw him wink.

She set her hand on the side of her leg, fingers tapping anxiously against her body. She tried to play it cool. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I shouldn’t be in Potions either, so consider yourself lucky.”

“Oh, I do.”

The conversation moved from school and schedules to Quidditch and books and friends and family, though she kept herself rather guarded for the last. They talked about patrols, and Emily told him about getting caught in the twins’ prank the night before. She looked back on it, laughing, but Roger seemed less than enthused. He moved on to the Tournament — another topic Emily rather tried to avoid.

Suddenly, the door to the common room opened, and Ravenclaw students poured in by the dozens. Emily checked her watch — 10:04.

“We missed breakfast,” she pointed out and showed Roger the time.

“Damn,” he said, and though he sounded like he was joking, she couldn’t quite tell. “I was really looking forward to eggs today, too.” Then he chuckled. “But this was more fun.”

“It was.”

Emily’s eyes scoured the crowd for Violet, and when she couldn’t find her, wondered if she was still in the Great Hall.

“We should do this again,” Roger said as he set his timetable down on the side table next to the sofa where they sat.

“Schedules?”

“No, this. Hanging out,” he said, and though Emily tried to play casual, her insides were screaming so loud she was just about certain Violet would hear from wherever she was and come crashing through the common room door. Roger shuffled his weight on the sofa, turning his body more to face her.

A smile crept across her lips, and she curtained her hair in front of it to shield her blush. “Oh.”

A deep, calming breath flared his nostrils before he spoke again. “You know, I’m getting a bit twitchy from lack of Quidditch.” He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “Guess I built the season up so much in my head that now it’s like I’ll explode if I don’t get out on the pitch…”

“Can’t say I completely understand, but —”

“You wanna come?” he offered, and she nearly melted under the pressure when his eyes met hers. “I know you don’t usually play, but I could show you how.”

Was he asking her on a date?

She stuttered through her quick reply. “I’m not sure when I —”

“It’s no rush, really. Just sometime. Y’know, something to look forward to.”

“Maybe once term settles in a bit. A couple weeks?” Her voice was more hesitant than she meant it to be, and she watched as Roger tried to catch his face before it fell.

“Whenever you want,” he said with a smile.

>>>

The Great Hall was nearly empty by the time Emily got down the stairs, bag in hand. Breakfast was long gone, and with there being no classes, many of the students were spending their time outside.

The grounds were much warmer than Emily thought they would be, and she basked for a moment beneath the sun’s rays, pushing her sleeves up to the elbow. A temperate breeze, uncharacteristic of Hogwarts weather in September, blew through her hair.

For a moment, Emily just stood on the bottom stair and took in the view. There were students everywhere — some playing games, some studying, others still even taking naps in the shade of the trees. She could see the mountains in the distance, and in front of them, the Black Lake with the sun reflecting a garish glow off its surface.

And at the edge of the Lake, Emily caught a glimpse of flame-red hair and squinted to ensure it wasn’t either of the youngest Weasleys. But when a matching head appeared, she knew it was her boys. That had been their spot de choix for nearly five full years now, and it was generally understood that no one but Fred, George, Lee, Violet, and Emily were permitted to sit there, with a few choice exceptions. Not that many people wanted to sit that close to the Black Lake anyway — they knew about the Giant Squid, after all. But Emily knew about him too, and she knew that the Squid didn’t much bother with students, though he was quite a sight to behold when he did.

The boys and Violet sat grouped beneath a tree. Lee leaned against its trunk, looking half-asleep, while Violet was buried nose-deep in a book to his left. Fred and George stood at the Lake’s edge, skipping rocks across its surface as competition and threatening to throw each other in.

They had all agreed to meet for Potions studying — at Violet’s behest, of course, though she was the one who needed it the least — to prepare yet again for the O.W.L. The twins were begrudging, and Lee came because he had nothing better to do. Emily was determined to be prepared for the exam; she’d be damned if she didn’t earn her O this time around.

“Oi!” Fred called out when he saw her heading towards them from the castle. He squinted against the glare of the sun to watch her. “Where were you this morning? No breakfast?”

“Roger and I were hanging out in the common room,” she explained and wondered why they hadn’t asked Violet earlier.

“Davies? Really?” Lee asked suddenly, now sitting straight upright. His face scrunched up as if he had gotten hit with a dungbomb.

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Violet, as if in Emily’s pre-emptive defence.

Lee shrugged in response and leaned his head back against the trees trunk, closing his eyes against the sun’s glare. “Just didn’t see you as the sort to drool over him, I guess.”

George agreed with a nod. “That’s mostly just…” He searched for the right word, ultimately landing on, “bimbos.”

With a surprised scoff, Emily spat the word back at him. “Bimbos?”

“Well, he’s kind of a prat, to be honest.”

Almost out of nowhere, Fred let out a throaty laugh and threw his arm over Emily’s shoulder. Between the surprise and the weight of her bag, she nearly collapsed. “But then again, George, he is her type.”

“My type?”

Violet was pensive for a moment before jumping in. “You know, I do see it. Tall, dark hair, charming in a roguish sort of way…”

“No, no,” Fred cut in, wagging his finger. “Chaser on the Quidditch team. That’s all. That’s her bloody criteria.”

Emily hadn’t seen the pattern — though she’d rather consider it coincidence, really — until it stared her in the face. Her first boyfriend was Malcolm Preese in fourth year. He was a Hufflepuff boy, and they had met while paired up together in Care of Magical Creatures to care for a baby blast-ended skrewt. They were together for a week when Malcolm first brought up his desire to try out for his House Quidditch team. Though he was hesitant, Emily had wholly encouraged him. “You’d make a great Chaser,” she said.

Oh, God.

Then last year, she dated Adrian Pucey for a good portion of the term. He was a Prefect too, and he was already, much to the twins’ distaste, a star on the Slytherin Quidditch team, a Chaser of course. For the boys, his saving grace — and the only one, at that — was that he wasn’t “a cheating git like the rest of his House,” though poor Adrian did find himself dodging more Bludgers than usual when Slytherin played Gryffindor.

And now Roger had her eye — Ravenclaw Chaser and Quidditch captain.

Emily’s eyes narrowed at Fred, much more menacing than her stuttered reply. “S-so what?” She pursed her lips, tightening the seal with her clenched jaw.

Fred stood over her. He was nearly five inches taller than she was, but she didn’t notice as much until he loomed over her, drowning her in his shadow. His mouth contorted to the side in a warped smile as he spoke. “So you always get your knickers wet for a Chaser, right? Any one will do. But surely you’ve got to round out the set before you circle back for seconds, so who’s next? Katie? Alicia? Angelina?”

In the silence that followed, his eyes frantically searched her face for response, but she had learned quickly, as best she could, not to betray much reactionary emotion in front of Fred and George. So instead she drew in a thin breath through her teeth. “What, you jealous that I haven’t expanded to Beaters yet?” she said, and Fred looked as if the words had slapped him upside the face. “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I hardly give a rat’s arse about Quidditch.”

His eyes gaged her face again but more paced this time. His brows scrunched up in confusion, painted with the slightest bit of hurt. “But you always come to the games.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Emily asked, and Violet nodded.

The Quidditch games always filled the stands on weekends at Hogwarts. Nearly the entire school showed up. Emily always brought her homemade House pennants — red, yellow, and green — when she went. She had made the first of them, in scarlet and gold, when Fred and George made the House team as Beaters in second year. She made the yellow for Malcolm the year later and, most recently, the green for Adrian the next. No matter which teams were playing, Emily could always cheer, and the twins could always spot her in the crowd — decked in blue from head to toe, except for the red-striped banner.

“Yeah, but you cheer when it’s not even your House playing.” George made the observation this time, almost as if in defence of his brother.

“I go for my friends, whether they’re in my House or not,” she said and studied them both as they turned red in the face. “The way I understand it, friends are supposed to be supportive of each other.”

“Guess so,” the twins mumbled in unison; both looked down at their feet.

And she growled, “So I damn well expect the same from you.”

Violet chuckled as she grabbed Emily’s arm and started pulling her away. Over her shoulder, she called back, “Pick your battles, boys.”

Emily was taken aback by Violet’s grip on her. “What’s this about?”

Violet let her go but didn’t ease her gaze. She had a hawk-like focus into Emily’s eyes. “How’d it go?”

Emily shuffled in her spot, dug the tip of her trainer into the dirt. “He wants to hang out again.”

“That’s great, Emmy!” Violet said and threw an arm around her friend. When Emily didn’t respond, she added, “Isn’t it?”

Emily suddenly sprung forward, and her head jerked up to match Violet’s face. “Oh, yeah… definitely.”

Violet raised a brow. “I feel a ‘but’ coming…”

“But it’s all just so weird!” Emily started and threw her arms up. When she realized how loud her voice was, she was careful to whisper. “I mean, all of a sudden, out of nowhere… he likes me? And how can I possibly date someone all my best mates hate?”

“I quite like Roger,” Violet corrected with a pointed finger.

Emily let out a scoff. “Yeah, well, you’re outnumbered.”

“They’re being ridiculous, and you don’t have to give into it.”

They boys’ dislike of Roger did seem a bit ridiculous. They never even spoke with him. What did they know of him? To call him a prat? Their disapproval seemed senseless, and yet…

“But —” Emily started, but Violet stopped her.

“I’ll take care of the boys, Em; you worry about Roger.”

>>>

The first Monday morning of term opened with Defence Against the Dark Arts. Emily was sat at the fore of the classroom — by her insistence rather than Violet’s this time. She organized her textbook and quill on the desktop, trying to ignore the desperate churn of anxiety brewing in her stomach. Although more students had arrived since Emily sat down, the professor’s desk at the front was still empty.

Violet glanced down at her watch and whispered, more to herself than to Emily, “Class starts in two minutes…”

As if on cue, the door swung open, and everyone expected to see their mysterious new professor in the doorway. Instead, they were all greeted by the sight of the Weasley twins.

“Excellent work, Fred,” George said, turning to his brother with a grin.

“Right on time, George.”

“Only seconds to spare.”

They high-fived before snagging the seats directly behind Emily and Violet, lamenting that they were so close to the front.

Emily had been very deliberate in her choice of seat for this class in particular. She recognized their professor’s name upon his announcement, but it took her until this morning to realize why. In all of her research over the summer, in the pamphlets and books, it was there: Alastor Moody. The man was a renowned Auror with a remarkable number of dark wizard captures over the past several decades. Surely, there would be none better to teach her how to be Auror material.

Violet’s eye flickered from the door back to her watch again, and she grumbled, “Can’t even believe it; late for his own class.”

“Late for my own class, am I?” a gruff voice called out from the front of the room, and Professor Moody stood in front of the blackboard. No one saw him come in or from where he did. With each step he took toward the middle of the classroom, his wooden leg echoed against the floor. “You’re the official Hogwarts timekeeper then, Miss Briggs?”

Violet stared back at him with wide-eyed panic. “No, sir.”

“Then maybe we ought to pay more attention to class and less to the clock.”

Violet turned a deep magenta and slunk down in her seat. Meanwhile, Emily was sat next to her trying to hold in bursts of laughter. It was so unlike Violet to get in trouble — and on the first day of class, no less.

“Great start,” Emily whispered, her words separated by breathy sniggers. “First impressions and such.”

“Shut up.”

Moody’s introduction to the class was brief. “I’m here,” he said as he wrote his surname out on the blackboard, “because Dumbledore finally wised up about hiring a professional. And so I plan to teach you what I know.” He paused for a moment, his back still to the class, and then resumed. “There’s an old saying: ‘the best offence is a good defence.’ And I believe that. But in order to have a good defence, you need to know what you’re up against.”

He proceeded to talk about the “current state of things” — about Death Eaters and Dark Wizards and what he had seen in his time as an Auror, including a sort of magic Emily didn’t even know existed. He called them “the Unforgivable Curses,” and she bristled when he demonstrated them. One to control. One to torture. One to kill.

As the class sat in stunned silence, Emily couldn’t help but think about the Killing Curse — its incantation reminiscent of the muggle “magic spell her father used to jokingly cast. And she wondered, was that how he died?

She suddenly regretted sitting in the front.

>>>

If there was anything that stuck with Emily about Moody’s Defence class, it was this:

A good defence. Know what you’re up against.

Moody was pretty fair, in explaining their curriculum for the term, in detailing the types of magic they would learn. Advanced magic, defensive magic, and even dark magic, if he thought it could be important for them to know. Most of the class was adamant about not wanting to know at all.

But Emily was smart enough to see the advantage. Know what you’re up against. And if she, of all people, was going to be an Auror, she knew she’d need all the help she could get.

That was the thought that brought her to the library on a Monday night, long after everyone else had cleared out. That was the thought that slipped her past Madam Pince and her harsh glares. And that was the thought that directed her to the Restricted Section.

Emily wasn’t much one for breaking rules, and the Restricted Section was, as its name implied, restricted for access to students. Even prefects, even seventh years, were not permitted.

There were books upon books lining the wall of the Restricted Section — books about death and dark magic, books too dangerous to be housed in a school where they could be accessed by prying eyes. Like Emily’s.

But she was there for a different type of book. Like Moody had said: the best offence is a good defence. So she started with that.

Each breath Emily took was laboured as she dove further and further in, trying to remain as silent as possible. Each step she took was calculated, measured, so as to be undetectable in the quiet of the library.

The shelves were filled from floor to ceiling, but only one book among the thousands caught Emily’s eye. It was old with a mahogany-coloured binding that was faded by time. Its simple title was embossed in gold letters along its spine: Defensive Magicks. On the cover, Emily saw a reddish stain and tried her damnedest not to think about its source.

Still, she was drawn to the book like a moth to a flame. It was heavy in her hands, more so than it looked, as she lifted it from its place on the shelf, and she was quick to shove it deep into the depths of her bag.

“Whatcha got there?” came a voice from behind her, and she swore that she stopped breathing, the excess air building up in her ears. She couldn’t hear anything beyond her rushing pulse.

“Hello?” the voice hissed, and a hand waved in front of her face. When she finally worked up the courage to turn around, she came tête-à-tête with Fred and George.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. She folded her arms across her chest, blocking access to her bag.

Fred smirked. “Could ask the same of you.”

Emily could feel her face begin to pale as she racked her brain for response, clever or otherwise.

“I’m doing research,” she said finally with a deep breath, the slightest bit indignant. “Nothing wrong with a little innocent curiosity.”

“Yeah, real innocent,” said George as he tore a page from the back of a book. Though tempted she was to chastise him, she decided it was better to ignore it. “In the Restricted Section and all…”

They had her there. This was certainly not so prefecty. It would do no good for her reputation were it to get out that she was sneaking into off-limits areas of the castle after hours. But then again…

She said, “Might I remind you that you’re both here too.”

“We’re doing ‘research’ too,” Fred said, his fingers air-quoting the word. “Bit of a personal project.”

“So is mine.” She maintained eye contact with him despite the pressure of his gaze.

“Well then… looks like we’re at a bit of an impasse.”

Emily let out a huff of air and waited for them to continue with whatever inevitable proposition they had up their sleeve.

“So let’s trade — silence for silence.”

Emily pursed her lips. She wasn’t to this, wasn’t used to the twins having dirt on her. Then again, she wasn’t much used to being dirty either. But most of all, she didn’t like the look of power that sparkled in their eyes.

“Fine.”

“Don’t sound so sorry,” Fred said and gripped her body in a side-hug. “It’s more for your benefit than ours.”

George grabbed her from the other side. “Yeah, nobody would bat an eye if they found out we were here.”

“But you?”

“Imagine they could revoke Prefect status for that.” Their arms were draped over her shoulder, criss-crossing over each other. “Maybe even expulsion.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” She shook them both off. “So what’s the catch?”

Fred and George looked to each other and then back at her. In unison they smiled and said, “We’ll let you know.”

And as they all snuck out of the library past dark, the fear of her debt loomed over Emily’s head…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update to this story was long-overdue. Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, and/or left kudos so far! You guys are great!


	12. Simpler Methods

Over the next few weeks, if Roger sat next to, or even too near, Emily at the Ravenclaw table, Fred and George — and Lee, for that matter — were nowhere to be found. Several times she tried waiting until they sat first, but they were sure to not be around if Roger was even in sight.

And in Potions, one of the two classes she shared with Roger, they were all fidgety too. Even though nothing had changed — she still sat in her usual seat, still partnered with Violet, still cowered beneath Severus’s disdainful eye each class. She even politely declined Roger’s offer to sit near him and Cedric. But even that didn’t bring Fred and George back. It was getting harder and harder to ignore that the boys were being weird.

For two whole weeks, it went on like this, until she finally snapped, hissing her frustrations in the middle of Potions class until she and the boys were both red in the face. Severus’s glare silenced her, and she slunk back into her seat, refocused her attention on the brew she shared with Violet.

The class all worked in silence for a while, and Emily could hear the hushed whispers of her classmates amongst lit burners and stirring ingredients and the tick of the clock as it counted down the minutes until class ended. Then, from somewhere behind her, there was a _Psst!_ noise. At first Emily attributed it to a finicky burner or an overbrewed potion, but it happened again, this time accompanied by a ball of parchment that hit her in the back of the head.

Emily spun around to find its source and caught him red-handed with two additional balls set aside on his desktop. She was practically fuming.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she demanded, and Fred look so surprised by her reaction — as if he had been expecting something else — that he stared wide-eyed at her and said nothing.

He opened his mouth, but she jumped in before he could say anything.

“And don’t throw things, you git.” Her eyes narrowed, and there were creases in the skin on her forehead as she shot him a glare. With a flick of her wand, the remaining balls of paper disappeared, leaving only ash in their wake. Violet stared down the cauldron, trying to ignore the discomfort that lingered in the air. “What are you, a child?”

Fred bristled before his face softened. “I was _trying_ to apologize.”

Emily let out an aggravated _harrumph_ , which was apparently enough to set off Severus from across the room. With a billow of his robes, he appeared, almost like he had apparated, right in front of her desk.

“Miss Prince.” His voice was simultaneously drawling and booming. “I should not have to ask that you spare the class the grating sound of your voice for a mere five minutes, but inconsideration is apparently your strongest trait.”

“I —”

“Twenty-five points from Ravenclaw,” he said, and she pursed her lips, folding her arms tight against her chest. “And since neither that nor detention seems enough of a deterrent for your insolence, I expect a roll of parchment about Polyjuice’s side-effects on my desk Monday morning — from each of you. You can thank Miss Prince for that.”

The cacophony of each individual student’s groan echoed in Emily’s ears, and she wished she could disappear. But beyond that, she was damn near furious. The clock’s ticking could not go fast enough, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it to be over — three, two, one.

As the class rushed to empty, Emily stayed back and stood in front of Severus’s desk, looking indignant. She waited until the door closed behind the last student before she spoke.

“What are you on about,” she demanded, her eyes focused on his slicked black hair, “trying to turn me into a bloody pariah?”

“Watch your tongue,” came his unmoved drawl. He did not look up at her.

Emily set her hands down hard on the edge of his desk, watched as his eyes glanced over them. Were her blood not practically boiling, she’d be bothered by the chillness of the air in this part of the room. “I’ve never done exceptionally well on the social front on my own, so I don’t need any help from you.”

“I’m certain your struggles are exaggerated.”

She let out a caustic laugh and then scoffed. “What did I do anyway? Everyone else was talking too.”

Finally, he looked up. And he only said, “You’re held to a higher standard than the others.”

“Why?” she asked, her nostrils flaring. “How is that fair?”

“It’s not; nor is it intended to be.” His eyes flickered from her face and back to his desk. “But I’m sure we’d all prefer you not be such a disappointment to your father’s memory.”

She felt the words slap across her skin as he said them, and red embarrassment welled in her cheeks. It stung — the entire sentiment, each syllable, every letter. Her jaw clenched so tightly that her mouth ached.

From behind gritted teeth and against a lump in her throat, she said, her voice shakier than she wanted it to be, “Second year prefect with nine O.W.L.s, and somehow I still manage to disappoint.”

Severus hesitated in his response, and for a moment, Emily almost expected a semblance of compassion to come from him. But when the hesitation ended, he sneered.

“There’s always room for improvement; in your case, plenty.”

Emily finally pulled herself away from the desk. She slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “Then I’ll certainly try to do better.” She was tempted to let his name — his first name — slide casually, carelessly off her tongue to make _him_ embarrassed and angry, but she didn’t. “ _Sir_.”

On her way out the door, she nearly ran straight into Fred, who was waiting outside for who knew how long. She didn’t know, and hardly cared at this point, how much he heard.

“What was that all about?” he asked her, body slouched and tone casual.

She shook her head and pushed past him, trying to blink away the tears that threatened to fall across her face. “Nothing. Let’s just go.”

She stormed down the corridor toward the stairs, shouldering through groups of students, and Fred trailed behind her, rushing to catch up. When she slammed open the Entrance Hall doors that led outside, Fred came to a halt.

“Don’t you have class?”

Emily stopped to look back at him, grateful for the moment of pause to take a breath. “Cancelled.”

His head cocked to the side as he stepped toward her. “So then what —?”

“Figured we can get a head start on all this Potions rubbish,” she said, and she could feel the frustration leave her body bit by bit. “Y’know, since my essay’s doubled again, so I’ll need all the time I can get.”

Friday afternoons were dedicated to knocking out all homework so that the weekends were free. Many times this manifested as a study group of sorts beneath their oak tree by the Black Lake. At this point, it was a sort of time-honoured tradition five years in the making.

Fred nodded as they made their way to their spot, as they sat down in their shade and pulled out their textbooks and parchment.

Late September brought a chill to the grounds with a foreboding wind that blew about the leaves left by the start of autumn. Many students had opted to stay within the castle’s warmth, and Emily didn’t blame them — the idea of curling up with a good book in front of the Ravenclaw common room fireplace was immensely tempting.

“So… Polyjuice is like liquid Transfiguration, right?” Fred asked as he flipped absentmindedly through pages in his textbook. Emily peered over his shoulder for a page number, but he wasn’t even in the right chapter.

“Right.”

He slammed his book down suddenly into his lap. “Why is it that Snape’s such a git to you?” He paused and then corrected, “Well, I mean, he’s a right git to pretty much everybody but to you especially. I mean, that essay? Total bollocks.”

Emily shrugged, careful not to betray any suspicion of a real answer; not that there really was an answer anyway, not that she knew. Although she had a few theories and hypotheses on the matter — an exacting sense of obligation to her mother, the memory of her father, a burden of guardianship — her shrug was not _technically_ a lie. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of guilt from the deceit and hoped he wouldn’t see through it.

She went back to her homework, glancing over the words on the page, though she didn’t have the focus to read.

Fred didn’t look convinced. “You _have_ to have noticed!”

Without looking up, she said, just as offhand, “Oh, I noticed, but I’ll be damned if I know why.”

“You’re a shite liar, Princey,” he said, sitting more upright as he turned to face her. “Always have been.”

“But I’m —” she started, but he cut her off.

“And if you won’t tell me of your own volition, I’ll have to resort to… other methods.”

She didn’t much like the glimmer in his eye, the one that always showed up when he was up to no good, planning some sort of dangerous scheme. Who could even guess what he had up his sleeve?

If the situation called for it, she knew the solution that would work best…

“Veritaserum takes a month to brew,” she replied, matter-of-factly as she pulled her hair back off her face. “ _Not to mention_ it’s illegal to use.”                                                     

Fred chuckled and cracked each knuckle on his fingers. “Only you would start with that. My methods are simpler.”

Emily raised a brow at him and tried to stop the smile spreading across her face as she challenged him. “Oh, really?”

Without any further warning, he lunged at her, and she shrieked.

Fred climbed over top of her, pinning her body below his. Immediately his fingers poked and prodded her body, his hands running along her stomach, each touch increasing the pain of each tickle. Laughter exploded within Emily with each exhale — almost impossible to bear. Though she was worried about drawing attention to herself, to the two of them, she was in too deep now to do anything about the spectacle.

As she squirmed beneath him in the hopes of slipping from his grasp, he caught her again, calloused fingers hitting just the right spot on her side. In sheer reaction, the top half of her body haphazardly bolted upward in an uncontrollable fit of motion, and she felt her head slam hard against his face.

His immediate yelp was followed by a string of creative expletives she had rarely heard him use before as he sat atop her with both hands desperately clutching his nose. Apparently the padding of her thick wavy hair had done little to lessen the impact. Fred was never one to cry, but reactionary tears welled in his eyes as he continued to swear.

Emily tried to control her hysterical laughter, partly left over from his relentless tickling and part as a result of some moderately gratifying schadenfreude. “Hey, serves you right.”

With his large hands covering much of his face, his reply was muffled but so loud, almost belligerent.

“Sh…” she began, desperate to try and calm him down and keep him quiet. “Sh… I’m sorry!”

As he finally caught his breath and quieted beneath her hands on his shoulders, he gently, slowly, moved his hands from their death-grip on his face. Emily looked up to see the damage.

It was already swollen and just beginning to bruise, green and purple splotching in every direction. There was a slight drip of blood that ran beneath it.

“How bad is it?” Fred asked. He moved to touch it himself but cringed under the weight and pressure of his finger.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Emily said again.

“That bad?”

She shook her head, but she knew her reaction gave her away. She asked, “Are you okay?”

He smirked beneath the blood and bruising. “ _Anything_ not to spill your secrets, huh?”

“What? No! I just — it’s just…” She paused to really look at him, tilting her head to the side. At this new angle, his face somehow looked even worse. The bruising was bolder, along and around the spot on his nose where the skin was split. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

He pressed his lips together for a moment and let out a lamenting breath. “I’ll be fine, I suppose. ‘less I lose so much blood I die.”

His nose had stopped bleeding at that point, the blood dried and crimson beneath his nostrils, and Emily rolled her eyes at his overdramatic play. Suddenly he began shaking, eyes spinning into the back of his head as he fell backwards and collapsed, spasming and seizing against the ground.

Emily pulled herself out from beneath his dead weight and rushed to his side. “Oh my god… oh my god!” Her hands trembled in the air above him as panic set in. What could she even do?

Her lip was quivering, and she tried to scream for help, but her throat was dry, and the words wouldn’t come out. She set a hand on his forehead, her fingers stroking his hair. It all happened so quickly, and she was helpless to stop it.

She gripped tight to cottony fabric of his shirt, and he stopped moving, and all of her breath left her body at once.

There was a stirring, a shift of weight beneath her, and his eyes popped wide open. “Gotcha!”

In the immediate, she was torn between furious surprise and stunned relief. She dropped his shirt, letting him fall against the ground in a puff of grass and dust. “You horrible prat!”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “What was it you said before?” he asked, a mischievous gleam twinkling in his eyes. “‘Serves you right?’”

“You’re the worst person.”

“It was all your fault.” He sat up fully now, shaking the dirt out of his messed-up red hair. “Least you could do is kiss it and make it feel better.”

Emily laughed, pulling a stray blade of grass from among the scraggly strands of his hair. “Yeah, okay.”

“What, won’t take a dying man’s last request?” He pouted his lips, his brown eyes large and pleading.

“It’s a bizarre request,” she replied, then added suddenly, “And you’re _not_ dying.”

“But I could have been,” he said. And he kept looking at her like that, his eyes wide and pleading, his lip pouted. His hair had fallen across his face, splayed across his forehead

“Fine,” she said with a distinct groan. She had to sit up on her knees to reach him, careful to ensure she dodged every particularly bruised area. And gently, she set her lips against the sensitive skin of his nose.

“Oi!”

Emily spun around so quickly that her hair slapped against Fred’s skin. He let out a yelp, and she caught him rubbing against where the curls had whipped him.

_Heh. Served him right._

When she looked ahead, she saw George heading in their direction with Lee Jordan and Violet in tow, the three of them chortling to themselves. George continued, “His lips hurt too, Em!”

“Oh, shut up,” Emily groaned and tried not to look at Fred.

“Yeah, mate,” Fred started with a chuckle as he sat up and moved his books back onto his lap. He wiped his sleeve against his skin to wipe away the dried blood and winced against the pain and friction. The bruise was still there but had subsided a bit, and the swelling had gone down. “Why d’you got to make everything weird?”

“I don’t know that it was George making it weird,” Violet said, crossing her arms against her chest. She stared Emily down with a disapproving motherly glare.

“You lot missed lunch, by the way,” George said while they moved to take a seat beneath the tree too. “We weren’t sure where you were.”

“But since we’re nice…” Violet said and pulled two apples from her bag, tossing one to each of them. “Here.”

Emily noticed that she wasn’t much hungry and set the apple gingerly on her lap.

“So where’d you two leave off, then?” Violet continued as she took a seat in the grass and pulled her Potions text from her bag. Straight to business, as always. “Y’know, before the nonsense.”

Fred pulled his book up from the grass where it fell and handed Emily hers. “We just got to the third part.”

The boys sat down next, and Emily tried to ignore the uneasiness in her stomach. They all matched pages, except for Lee who lazed against the oak tree.

“So, Polyjuice,” Violet started as she began to read off the page.

A voice called over from the far end of the courtyard. “Hey, Em!”

It broke everyone’s concentration — though nobody, save for Violet, had managed much focus anyway, especially not Emily. And she was torn between relief and regret when she saw that the source of the voice was Roger Davies.

As Roger approached, Fred’s body stiffened, and he growled at Emily, “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“I invited him,” Emily replied and tapped her fingers anxiously against her thigh. “He’s in Potions with us too.”

As Emily scooted over to make room for Roger, Fred snapped, “Don’t. He can take my seat.”

He jumped up, knocking his books across the ground in a fit and flurry of papers. Emily was quick to gather them from the grass and brushed the dirt off of them as she stood too, holding the stack tight in her arms. “Where’re you going?”

Fred ripped the pile from her, pried it from her grasp. “Got things to do.”

As he headed back into the Entrance Hall, the rest of the group looked to George who shrugged and trailed after his brother. Lee soon followed. And by the time Roger arrived, there was plenty of room for him to sit. But even as he neared them, she couldn’t stop thinking about Fred — his red-in-the-face irrational anger coming out of nowhere, completely absurd.

“Hi, Roger,” Violet said, when Emily didn’t, and pressed her lips into a smile. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t stay, but I just wanted to stop by… say hello…” He turned from Violet to face Emily directly. “… ask if you were maybe up for a bit of Quidditch tonight… or something?”

Emily held all of her breath in her throat. She didn’t answer, she couldn’t, until Violet nudged her hard in the ribs. Her face scrunched into a smile, she nodded.

“Great.” Roger’s face split into a grin, then the longer he looked at her his face became more solemn. “You all right?”

She nodded again.

“You’ve just…” Roger stared at her face, almost studied it, his brows knit tightly together as he examined her. He pointed to her mouth. “You’ve got a bit of blood just there.”

Emily’s hand flew to her face, and she saw the pink of it when she wiped her lips.

_Fred._

She felt her face pale and tried to vigorously rub the residue off onto her robes. Roger shrugged and smiled and said he’d see her later. Once he left, Emily released all of her breath at once, like a deflating balloon.

“Well that was terrifying,” she said and leaned back with her arms outstretched in the grass. “And, go figure, all for nothing.”

Violet gaped at her from beneath furrowed brows. “Why _did_ you invite Roger along? Surely you had to realize it would… complicate things.” She paused and set her books aside. “What’s going on with you two, anyway?’

Emily’s fingers ran through the split ends of her hair, absentmindedly. “Well, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I think he might fancy me.” She bit her lip coyly and tried not to let a smile break across her face.

“… And you’re _happy_ about that?” Confusion knotted through Violet’s features as she stared blankly at Emily.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Emily asked. She pursed her lips into a hard line across her face.

Violet took a deep inhale of breath. “I guess. I mean, it’s not terribly surprising, the way you two’ve been going on this year.”

Emily’s frown cracked and erupted into a smile as she tried not to scream with joy. “I know! I’m beginning to think he’s even flirting with me.”

“Yes,” Violet started hesitantly, her face focused on Emily’s, “but what about Roger?”

“What about him?”

Violet’s arms snapped into place on her hips, and she tilted her head to the side. “I _thought_ you fancied Roger.”

“I _do_ fancy Roger,” Emily said, and she stumbled like the conversation had just knocked her sideways. “What’re you on about?”

Violet let out a groan and hissed, “Then what the devil is going on with —?” She stopped herself before she finished the question, staring blankly for a moment into the air. When Emily nudged her, a flash of realization crossed Violet’s eyes.

“What’s going on with what?”

“Nothing,” Violet said quickly and shook her head. She turned away from Emily as her cheeks turned a deep pinkish shade. “Never mind.”

But Emily pressed. She nudged Violet on the arm. “What were you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Violet repeated.

Emily nudged her harder. “ _Who_ were you talking about?”

“No one!” It was a lie — that much was obvious, but it wasn’t worth pressing anymore. “Besides, don’t you have a date to get ready for?”

>>> 

That evening, Emily met Roger down at the Quidditch pitch. It was hardly night at all, the sun still illuminating the whole Hogwarts grounds, but it _had_ gotten chillier. She was grateful Violet had let her borrow a nice coat so she wouldn’t be traipsing about in a slobbish jumper.

“I’ve got the go-ahead from Flitwick _and_ McGonagall, so we should be completely covered.” Roger lugged the chest of Quidditch balls onto the pitch. There were two brooms set aside on the ground — a well-worn Cleansweep Seven which she assumed to be his, and an old clunker pulled from the Hogwarts stores for her. “No detention for you on my watch.”

“Oh, thanks,” Emily said and let out an awkward chuckle. The gesture was sweet, if a little heavy-handed, but she knew Roger was just trying to be nice, maybe joke a bit about her propensity for trouble.

As they started the play, they had an agreement. Emily would try to play Keeper, guard the posts, and Roger, going easy on her, would play his normal Chaser’s role. That worked for maybe twenty minutes while Emily gained her bearings on a broom, but it quickly became apparent that Roger was bored. He wanted to play Quidditch, though she was far from a challenge for him. Even _she_ was getting bored of missing nearly every shot he took.

“Score’s like a hundred to none,” she called to him after catching the Quaffle for the first time all night.

Roger smiled and zoomed over to her. “You’re doing great, if it’s any consolation.”

“I’m just glad I haven’t fallen off yet.” She stumbled a bit and gripped the broom with white knuckles. “ _Yet_.”

“You want to take a break?” he offered as he hovered beside her.

She shook her head. “But we could switch it up,” she suggested, struck with a burst of clever inventiveness.

“How?”

“Well, I already know you’re a hell of a Chaser,” she said, holding the Quaffle beneath her arm. “Now let’s find out if you’re a Keeper.” Her body was brimming with newfound confidence as she punctuated her joke with a wink.

“That was clever,” said Roger, fighting off chuckles until he couldn’t anymore.

She was so used to a constant barrage of mockery for her corny jokes and puns that Roger’s genuine laughter caught her completely unawares. At first, she wondered why it was he was laughing at her. Then she realized that perhaps without the contrast of Fred and George she was sort of funny.

Roger flew over the goal post, and Emily tried her best to do just as he did, though with much less grace and finesse. It made her feel better to see that Roger’s skill as a Chaser fat outpaced his skill as Keeper.

They played that way for a while — and Emily even managed to score a point or two — before they agreed to stop. It was getting dark anyway.

But they weren’t done talking, so Emily brought him to her favourite spot on the grounds, and they sat along the edge of the Black Lake with her oak tree behind them. The sky was a rich red overhead, smattered with deep pinks and oranges and a dark Ravenclaw blue following it.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Emily said as she crossed her legs and gazed out at the scene set in front of her. “Especially just at the right time of night.”

“Never realized you could get this view here.” He let out a pacified sigh.

She turned to face him and marvelled for a moment at the way the moonlight hit his figure. “You’ve never been this way?”

“’Round this time’s usually patrols or prefect meetings, or if not then it was Quidditch,” he answered and leaned back on his elbows. The grass left stains on his sleeves. “You _have_?”

Emily nodded. “Oh, yeah, always.” She paused, glancing out again at the Black Lake, watching the sun fall below its horizon. “And sometimes if you’re patient enough and you’re really quiet, you can maybe see the Giant Squid.”

“Wicked.”

“Yeah,” she said, breathlessly, and turned to Roger with a grin. “You know, I like to imagine we’ve become friends by now.”

Roger’s brow furrowed, and he looked slightly taken aback. “I thought we’ve been friends since the train at least.”

“I was talking about the Squid.”

“Oh.” Roger’s face went flush. “Right.”

“But I agree with you,” she said, careful not to meet his eyes, “about us being friends.”

“I was hoping for more than that,” he said, shaking his hair from his eyes. He inched closer to her, and she could feel her pulse thicken in her veins, like her blood was made of gravy.

_What did he just say?_

And he leaned over and kissed her.

The motion in itself was surprising, but even more so was the speed at which he pulled away. She’d barely had any time to realize what was happening.

“If that was too much, or too fast…” he started and let the sentence falter.

Too stunned for words, Emily shook her head, and Roger smiled.

“Good,” he said and kissed her again — longer this time and with increased fervour.

She waited for the ‘spark’ she had read about in books and seen on the telly — the moment where she would melt into the kiss, where Roger’s lips would feel like home, where she could live wrapped in his embrace forever and still find it too little time — but it didn’t come. Instead, she was focused on the moistness of his lips as they pressed against hers. His hand sat awkwardly on her lap as if there were no better place for it. And she nearly choked on his tongue as he used it to probe her throat.

After a brief struggle, they found a suitable rhythm, and his lips no longer felt rough against her own. He became gentler with each movement. Still not the dream, necessarily, but nice. When he finally pulled back, his body still hovered over her, and she tried to smile.

“I should be getting back,” she said, standing up from the grass at the Lake. Moonlight rippled against the water’s surface.

He reached for her hand. “I’ll walk you back to the common room if you want.”

“Actually…” she started, darting her eyes away as he stood up to follow her, “I’m not heading back right away.”

“Why not?”

Something in his tone, the sharpness of it, was a bit unsettling to her. She slid her hand from his. “Just want to take a detour on the way.”

She didn’t have to say any more for him to understand, and he kissed her again before leaving himself.

>>> 

“Where the hell were you?” a voice demanded as Emily made her way up the stairwell towards the Ravenclaw common room. Out in front of her, an arm jutted across the way to block her so she had to stop, and she looked up to see Fred.

“Just out for a stroll, _Mum_ ,” she said and let out a sarcastic laugh. “Ice your knickers.”

He looked borderline manic. “George and I got snitched by Allison Alden!”

Blind-sighted and still reeling from Roger, Emily could only stare at him and stutter, “W-what?”

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. “Remember our ageing potion upstairs? Yeah, well, guess who caught us going that way since you weren’t around.”

“She and I switched patrols for tonight,” Emily explained. It was a common enough occurrence amongst the prefects that she hadn’t thought anything of it when she made the request, and Allison was more than gracious about going along with it. She didn’t even _consider_ such unrelated consequences.

“Why?”

This time Emily avoided his eyes. “I had things to do.”

“Oh, yeah?” He leaned over her in a challenge. “Like what?”

“Like a date with Roger,” she snapped back. The sentence left a taste in her mouth that wasn’t altogether pleasant.

“Oh.” His face fell, and he scrunched up his nose a bit but tried to perk up before looking at her again. “You know you’ve got to tell us these things beforehand.”

“Didn’t think it’d matter. Sorry.”

Fred shuffled around until he rested his back against the wall. “With Davies, though? Doing what?”

If he were Violet, she’d maybe have gushed about every detail — the way Roger spoke, the way he smiled at her, the way he kissed her, though it still seemed strange to accept as her reality that Roger Davies fancied here. If Violet had asked what she got up to, she’d be honest and direct in listing the night’s activities: _Playing. Talking. Flirting. Snogging._

But this was Fred who already proved himself to be less than enthusiastic about her relationship with Roger. So she kept her answer simple: “Quidditch.”

“I thought you didn’t like Quidditch,” he said with a raised brow, and Emily wondered whether it was a question.

Her eyes met his. “I don’t.”

“Well, you seem to like it plenty for _Davies_ ,” he said and scoffed.

“He asked me, so I went.” Her lips pressed into a hard line.

“I’ve offered to teach you for the past five years, and you’ve always said no.”

She scanned his face for any indication that he was joking, but he seemed serious — even a bit hurt — and she was left dumbfounded staring at him. “You don’t see how this is different?”

“Not really, no.”

Emily let forth a frustrated huff that burst from the darkest depths of her being. Arguing with Fred was like banging her own head flat against the walls of an empty stairwell, with his replies serving as the resounding echo of each smack against the stone. He never listened, always had some clever snappy retort stowed away for use when the time came. He knew how to press every button, even ones she didn't realize she had — like insisting that him offering to teach her Quidditch was the same as Roger, even in spite of the situation. Ridiculous.

“Well, it is,” she said with a deep breath. It was too late to waste so much time and energy arguing about, of all things, this. “I am sorry, though, about you getting caught.”

“Guess we’ll get over it.” Fred shrugged, rolling his shoulders with a stretch. “Walk back with me?”

She was tempted to decline, if only for the quiet that the solitary walk back to the common room would afford her, but now that things had settled, now that Fred was… okay, now that she had a chance to process what happened with Roger, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate the company, even if _did_ bring her to the wrong tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was long-overdue. Thanks for reading and sticking with me! I'd love to hear what you're all thinking so far. Feedback is always appreciated! :)


	13. A Little Friendly Competition

Life as Roger's girlfriend was… different, though not necessarily in the ways Emily had imagined for herself. She got more attention than she was used to at first, both good and bad. Some of the fifth year Ravenclaw girls who spent their free time ogling Roger seemed almost in mourning now that he was officially off-the-market. They would whinge and gossip and stare almost menacingly at Emily from across the room, as if to shoo her away. But she was happy with Roger — they were _both_ happy. And their relationship cemented Roger's place with her and Violet at the Ravenclaw table and on the walk to the few classes they shared, and, as expected, that meant they were seeing less and less of Fred and George.

It seemed a fair trade-off initially— Roger was sweet and handsome and bright. He was a welcome guest at Friday afternoon Potions studies. He held doors open for the girls and escorted Emily back to the common room in the evening, like a real gentleman. He was polite and well-spoken and undeniably charming. Plus, Violet loved him enough to make up for anybody (namely, three anybodys in particular) who didn't. If there were any valid complaints about Roger, Emily sure couldn't think of them.

Except, perhaps, his jokes which oscillated between offensive and tasteless at worst to corny and chuckle-inducing at best. Emily wasn't used to being the sole source of humour in every conversation — and, in fact, she didn't find herself much good at it, though Roger would be sure to disagree. That was a forte best left to the twins.

Maybe _that_ was why Emily was so desperate to smooth things over with the boys, _her boys_. They hadn't spoken to her in what felt like weeks and actively avoided her otherwise, whether she had Roger in tow or not. They even seemed cross with Violet, whose only guilt came by association. When they tried to claim to Violet that they hated Emily 'fraternizing with the enemy', Violet was quick to point out that 1) House politics were historically absurd, 2) as a Ravenclaw, Roger wasn't in any sense 'the enemy', and 3) as Ravenclaws themselves, perhaps she and Emily were. That shut them up.

 _The enemy_ , ha! Emily just couldn't understand it; _nobody_ was really an enemy at Hogwarts, except for House Points and the Quidditch pitch. Though that was something — maybe the only thing — they had in common: Quidditch. Well, Quidditch and her. She wondered if maybe pent up testosterone could be to blame for this whole stupid mess. It sure seemed to be a contributing factor in the twins' constant posturing, which she was grateful Roger didn't feel the need to do. Even Lee put up a machismo front in public — she imagined to help the twins save face when they did it and looked stupid. Which they did… often. Maybe it was a sign that they missed her as much as she did them, even if none of them would admit it.

But by the time late October came, bringing with it the full force of autumn, Roger and Emily were old news anyway…

Details of the Triwizard Tournament were kept hush, though the students were eager for answers. Dumbledore promised more information 'in good time', which left everyone wondering when good time would be.

Apparently, that time was October 30th.

There were signs up in the Entrance Hall before then, of course, and the prefects had been given notice even before that, but in the week leading up to Halloween, the Tournament was all anyone could talk about.

_"_ _How d'you think they pick the Champions?"_

_"_ _Dumbledore's probably got a preset list."_

_"_ _Who do you reckon will be picked from Hogwarts?"_

For Emily, there was far too much else to worry about. With the impending arrival of the two competing schools, the prefects were warned that they would have to be on their best behaviour. Harder still, they would need to ensure that the rest of the school followed suit. She knew that the Gryffindor prefects, in particular, had their work cut out for them…

Still, _all_ the prefects were ultimately responsible for any mishappenings that went on while Hogwarts had visitors. And Dumbledore was careful to make that especially clear.

Before dinner that night, he gathered the prefects into the Entrance Hall. He stood at the fore of the room, looking bolder and taller than any of them had seen him before. And as he greeted each of them by name, his lips curved into a gentle grin.

"I assume you know about our incoming guests," he said, and the students nodded in response. "And I trust that you will all do your best to represent this school."

None of the students much knew what to expect from the other schools. Rumours spread but few people could confirm their validity. Emily especially didn't know what to expect, how the other schools would compare to Hogwarts, how similar the other students might be. Or how different. Emily — even more than anyone else — knew nothing of the wizarding world beyond Hogwarts.

Dumbledore spoke again, this time focusing his friendly gaze on the Heads from behind crescent shaped eyeglasses. "Miss Alden, Mr. Bradley, I'll entrust you with helping me greet the schools upon their arrival; the other prefects can remain in the Great Hall with their Heads of House."

"Of course, Professor," said Greg Bradley, the Head Boy from Slytherin, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Dumbledore's question wasn't optional and didn't necessitate an answer. But, as always, Dumbledore was gracious and replied with a polite nod.

"The schools will be arriving shortly, so I'll ask that you prepare." The prefects began to head out, but Emily felt a hand on her shoulder — Dumbledore's hand.

"Miss Prince, you speak French, yes?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as they met hers, and he smiled. "Severus was telling me that —"

"Yes, sir," she said, quick to answer in hopes that nobody else would hear the other name Dumbledore mentioned. "Just a bit."

"Then I hope it might not be too much of me to ask that you extend our Beauxbatons guests a friendly welcome?"

"Oh… of course not," she stuttered. "I'll do my best."

When Dumbledore smiled, Emily could see the whole of his face crinkle beneath his whiskers. "You have my thanks."

Roger was waiting by the Entrance Hall door for her, and she ran over to him, kissed him quickly on the cheek.

"Where're you off to?" he asked as he wiped his face clear of her lip gloss.

"Favour for Dumbledore," she said, more nonchalant than she expected with the weight of her newly-assigned responsibility. "But I'll see you later."

"Yeah, maybe later we can really spend some time together," he started and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "y'know, just us."

"Sure," she said before she even knew she did, before she realized what he meant.

_Oh._

"You coming, Em?" came Allison Alden's call over her shoulder.

Emily shot Roger a knowing smile and rushed over to where they were waiting for her.

She walked slowly behind Dumbledore and Allison as they headed to the front grounds to greet the Beauxbatons guests, and as she started to rehearse what she'd say upon meeting them, she realized just how rusty her French was.

" _Nous sommes_ … _hereux?_ " she started under her breath as she fiddled with the lining of her pockets. " _Avoir —_ no _— vous avoir ici_? Shoot."

From in front of her, Allison asked aloud, "You _do_ know French, right?"

"I do," Emily argued. "Well, I did…"

"So, what then, did you forget?" Allison chucked as she glanced back to Emily. "Because you sound like you're trying to speak Gobbledegook."

_Bloody hell…_

Emily groaned and practiced again, more focused, more deliberate this time, and while it was still broken French, it was arguably better. But it still wasn't _right_.

"At least _that_ sounded remotely French. I still have no idea what you're trying to say, but…" As they continued walking, Allison wrapped her braided black hair — all thirty metres of it, it seemed — into a tight bun at the top of her head. Although she was keeping the conversation light, Emily knew that the tight bun was a sign that things were serious — this was more important than anyone let on.

And that, of course, only served to make Emily more anxious.

"Relax," Allison said, looking over at her with a small smile, and Emily let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "You know this is just Dumbledore courting you for Head Girl next term."

Her? Head Girl? Surely that was a mistake, though she felt that about the last few years too — that her name was accidentally submitted instead of Violet, who would have made much more sense as a prefect. Emily tripped into trouble at every turn; she was a magnet for it, and her bad reputation with Severus, the detentions, points deductions, general punishments, didn't help the matter. She couldn't figure out what possessed Flitwick to recommend her name, much less what possessed Dumbledore to accept it…

"Already? We're barely started with this term!"

She was desperate to ask Allison how she knew, what she had heard.

"He moves fast, Dumbledore," Allison said with a shrug. She walked in long strides. "Had me shadowing Penny this time last year too."

Penelope Clearwater, Allison Alden, and then her? That couldn't be right.

"Three Ravenclaws in a row, though?" she asked once the realization caught her, and she sped her pace to catch up.

"It's not about house; it's about the _person_. So be on your best behaviour this term, Emmy." Allison paused before swinging her arm over Emily's shoulder with a slight 'thud.' She shot her a half-playful, half-serious smile. "No trouble."

"No trouble," Emily repeated, her voice shaky. She was not convinced.

_Easier said than done._

They stood at the Entrance Hall once they caught up to Dumbledore and awaited the Beauxbatons carriage, and when it approached, pulled through the sky by a fantastical pair of Pegasus, Dumbledore looked both calm and giddy in the same. The carriage landed more haphazard than intended, surely, skidding through the grass and mud in the courtyard as it slowed to a stop.

The students filtered out, one by one, in an almost endless line, the last of whom was followed by a gargantuan woman with black bobbed-hair and gauche red lipstick, clad in a knee-length fur coat. She ducked her head when passing under the entryway and bent down to greet Dumbledore with a kiss on each cheek.

"A pleasure to see you again, Madame Maxime," he said, oblivious to the mark she had left on his face, and Maxime smiled through parted lips.

Emily thought Allison Alden was tall, but next to Madame Maxime, she looked to be as small as Professor Flitwick — and Flitwick himself was the mouse beneath Maxime's elephant feet. The woman cast a shadow over the Entrance Hall and her whole student body.

Dumbledore stopped and looked to Emily, who took it as her cue to begin, looking up at the Beauxbatons headmistress.

" _Bonjour et bienvenue!_ " she said, grateful for her strong start. " _Nous sommes_ , uh, _hereux de vous avoir ici pour le_ , um, Triwizard Tournament…?" Was there a translation for that? She tried not to think too hard on it as she continued, _"Fais comes chez vous!_ "

When she finished, she tried her hardest not to grimace. Her pronunciation was a wreck, and she still couldn't be completely sure that she was even saying anything that made sense.

"Nicely done," Dumbledore whispered with a gentle pat on her back.

A smile parted Madame Maxime's deep red lips. "Ah, Albus! You did not tell me you had such lovely students." She turned to glance down at Emily. " _Merci, mon cher_."

"Yes, Miss Prince here is a prefect for Ravenclaw house and a shining example of our Hogwarts best."

Emily tried not to blush at the compliment.

"Then she will be entering to compete, no?" asked Maxime.

"Me?" Emily shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm too young."

" _Quelle dommage_ …" Maxime turned to Allison with a new, slightly smug look coating her painted lips. " _Et toi_?"

"Miss Alden is our Head Girl, and I've already encouraged her to enter," said Dumbledore, breaking effortlessly into the conversation once again. "I imagine she'd be worthy competition for any Beauxbatons champion."

Allison nodded with a proud grin, and Maxime huffed in response. "We shall see."

Dumbledore walked the Beauxbatons students and Madame Maxime to the Great Hall doors and ushered Allison and Emily back inside before he scurried over to greet Durmstrang school, which arrived shortly afterwards, a full-size sailing ship rising from the centre of the Black Lake. Emily could only imagine how little the Giant Squid enjoyed the intrusion.

The two girls found seats at the Ravenclaw table before the visiting students made their grand entrance. The entirety of Hogwarts sat in the Great Hall waiting with baited breath for their arrival. Then, suddenly, the doors blew open, almost as if by a gentle breeze, and the Beauxbatons students were officially introduced. They fluttered into the Great Hall, each step part of an elaborate, beautiful dance. They were captivating to watch.

And evidently, all the Hogwarts boys agreed, each one practically drooling over the Beauxbatons girls as they flitted past. Emily even caught Roger staring a bit _too_ intently as they passed him, and he embarrassedly mouthed an apology. There was no denying that the girls were beautiful — one could go so far as to call them gorgeous and not be accused of exaggeration — and even the boys had faces that looked chiselled from marble. They all wore pale blue blazers, tailored perfectly to sit against graceful curves, the colour a perfect contrast to every skin tone represented in the group. Each student moved with a refined finesse until they reached the Ravenclaw table. There, they stopped and stood perfectly straight, their hands neatly folded behind their backs as they awaited their headmistress.

Madame Maxime's arrival brought the Hogwarts students from awe to amazement. She was taller even than Hagrid, the largest man many of them had ever seen. She had to duck through the doorway, not for one moment losing an ounce of grace as she made her way through the Great Hall. Where the Hogwarts students — and the Gryffindors, in particular — had cheered and whistled for the Beauxbatons girls, they had gone silent now, and the only sound they could hear was Maxime's heeled shoes echoing against the stone.

Contrasting Beauxbatons, the Durmstrang students seemed to be made entirely of muscle, etched with hard lines as opposed to delicate curves. Each step they took was a march in perfect unison as their matching red overcoats bristled behind them. Their headmaster was a living shadow as he skulked in behind his students, clad in silver furs from head to toe. He was accompanied by a student, broad-shouldered and stocky, and when they stepped into the Great Hall, everyone got a better look at them — and at the student, in particular: professional Quidditch seeker, Victor Krum.

Emily, of course, had no idea who Victor Krum was, but she seemed in the minority. Even Allison was staring goo-goo-eyed at Krum as he passed through the hall.

Murmurs and whispers filled the Great Hall until Professor Dumbledore stood at his podium, his face softened with a grin as he made his announcement. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start."

As the students waited with baited breath in eager anticipation, Dumbledore introduced the additional guests who were seated at the faculty table at the front of the room — Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, Senior from the Ministry. He then described the tasks in vague detail, explained how a champion would be determined to win. Then he ushered in a large casket encrusted with jewels. At its introduction, the room went silent.

"I have been intentionally vague about the selection process for champions. Although the Tournament will be judged by Mister Crouch, Mr. Bagman, and the Heads of Schools, _we_ will play no part in determining which champions will compete. The three champions will be chosen by an impartial selector — the Goblet of Fire."

With a wave of his wand, the casket revealed a tall wooden cup filled with dancing purple-and-blue flames, and the entire room erupted in amazing _ooh_ s and _ah_ s.

"Eligible students will have twenty-four hours to enter themselves for consideration. Each must simply write his or her name and school onto a piece of paper and drop it into the goblet, which will reside in the Entrance Hall, accessible to everyone for entry. And tomorrow night, Halloween, it will identify the students it deems worthy to champion each school."

Dumbledore, almost sensing the wide-eye gazes at the goblet from the students, continued to explain his precautionary measures against underage entrants: an age line. Emily glanced at the Gryffindor table to see Fred and George whispering excitedly to each other.

Like any old ageing potion would be enough… though Fred and George wouldn't have brewed just any old ageing potion, she was sure.

When he spoke again, the excitement in Dumbledore's face was gone, and he looked suddenly solemn. "I must impress upon all aspiring champions that this Tournament is not to be entered lightly, as once a student has been chosen to participate, he or she must compete to the very end. Therefore, I hope that each student is sure of his or her decision prior to submitting an entry."

Emily felt her stomach sink. When the Tournament was first introduced, Dumbledore had mentioned a death toll, but Emily had been sure that he was exaggerating. Or perhaps she had simply hoped that he was. But as he repeated the sentiment in front of all three schools, it felt much more real, much more dangerous and deadly than it was in theory. She couldn't remember seeing Dumbledore so serious…

"But for now, it is time for bed." Dumbledore set a weak smile upon his face. "Best of luck to all, and I will see you again tomorrow evening!"

The prefects began to gather the students to return to their downs while the other schools' students continued in the other direction, but Roger was distracted by the new visitors. Emily tapped him on the arm.

"You coming?"

When he turned to her, it was like snapping out of a trance. "Duncan, Ced, and I were going to go meet the other schools real quick. Maybe we can hang out later?"

Emily shrugged in defeat, and he kissed her on the forehead before running off with the others.

She went to head back with the rest when she caught sight of two tall, red-haired boys slipping away towards the staircase opposite Gryffindor tower. Emily snuck behind them, far enough that she was just a shadow. She knew where they were going, and she knew why. It was all for the stupid Tournament — the gold, the glory.

But that didn't mean she'd let it happen without one last effort to stop it.

They were giddy with excitement, crouched over their cauldron, now fully brewed and primed for consumption. George pulled three miniature flasks from the pocket of his robes, and Fred spooned a small amount of the ageing potion into each.

"That extra one for me?" she asked, and the boys nearly jumped from their skin. George seemed relieved once he realized it was her. Fred was less so.

He said, "Don't be stupid. You wouldn't be caught dead entering your name."

"No, you're right. But neither should you."

"But we _want_ to enter, Em," George said, holding two of the vials in his hand. "We know what we're doing."

"Don't need your _approval_ either," Fred said, his voice a deep growl.

"I — I just don't want anything to happen to you," she said, focusing her eyes on his, and then turned to George, "to either of you."

Fred scoffed. "Surprised you're not giving us that haughty age-line, breaking-the-rules nonsense…"

"Well there _is_ and you _are_ ," she started and took a deep breath, "but I thought the argument that I don't want you dead would be more compelling."

George looked briefly sympathetic, but Fred's face remained hardened.

"Bet you won't put up this much fuss when Davies enters. 'Fraid of a little friendly competition?"

"It has _nothing_ to do with that." The insinuation, in itself, was insulting. It didn't occur to her that Roger would enter at all.

"Cut the prefect bollocks," said Fred with a flippant wave of his hand.

"It's not bollocks," she snapped, her eyes brimming with tears. "And I'm not saying it as a prefect. I don't give a damn about the trouble, but you could _die_ , either of you… and then what?" When neither responded, she let out a resigned sigh. "Please just sleep on it, okay?"

"Why?" George asked, turning to face her. Fred put out the flame beneath their cauldron.

"Because I'm your friend, and I'm asking you to." She clenched the sleeve of her robes in her hands, rubbed the fabric between her fingers.

Fred scoffed and jumped up. "You know bloody well that excuse doesn't work for everything."

Emily took a small step backwards so that he wasn't looming over her and said, "I can't see how this is even remotely similar."

"Oh, really?" Fred took another step toward her.

"…Am I missing something?" George asked from the floor. He didn't move into the line of fire between them.

"'Don't get yourself killed' is hardly equivalent to 'stop spending time with your boyfriend because it offends my precious sensibilities'."

George piped up with a perceptive, "Oh."

They'd had this same argument several times before, and it always came back to _this_ , to Roger and how much they disliked him. She had long stopped trying to defend him; it was a waste of her breath.

"You're so thick," Fred snapped beneath the furrow of his brow.

"And _you're_ selfish." She went to turn on her heel, but he stepped in front of her.

"No. _You're_ being unfair."

Emily went to push him away. "Oh, shove off."

"Now, now," George said as he dove to stand between them, "let's not do this here…"

There was a moment of quiet, where all Emily could hear was her pulse and her ragged breathing, until she growled, "Forget it. If you want to throw everything away and play this stupid game, _fine_. Your choice." She turned to leave but looked back at them one more time with softened features, and she clenched her jaw before speaking again, "Just… be safe."

And with that she headed back to the Ravenclaw common room. With each step, she grumbled an additional insult or curse, punctuated with a huff.

_Arrogant_

_Pig-headed_

_Self-centred_

_Moronic_

_Git!_

Once she got to the top of the staircase, and well out of earshot, she let out a deafening groan and fell back against the wall. A bout of unexpected tears washed over her as she slid to the floor, pulling her legs to her chest. They didn't listen; they never listened, even when it was important, even when it was life or death. They could get hurt, they could get themselves killed, and what would she do then? Even in their worst fight, which she could hardly remember before this one, she couldn't bring herself to imagine going without them, and _that_ , if only they would understand, was the reason she argued so adamantly against the Tournament, though she knew it was ultimately a waste of her breath and her time. But _what if_ Fred and George did enter, as she knew they would, and _what if_ they were chosen to compete, and _what if_ something happened to them in the competition? What more could she do? She wracked her brain for some alternative that she hadn't yet considered.

But there was none. She had to resign herself to that fact. All she could do was cross her fingers and hope that the goblet would pick someone, anyone, else.

After a while, once her body finished shaking against the tears, once she had exhausted herself, she relaxed against the stone wall with a few deep breaths, felt her heart slow, let her hands go steady — and in all the craziness she somehow found a moment of peace in the corner stairwell before she continued off to Ravenclaw tower.

At least time with Roger would be a welcome distraction. It was nice to know she was wanted, appreciated, _respected_. And the prospect of a little fun, she remembered, was a nice bonus.

She found a seat in the now-empty common room in front of the fireplace and waited. For what felt like forever, she stayed, sitting cross-legged on the plush armchair and trying not to wonder how much time had actually passed. Her body was indented in the plush fabric as she shuffled into a different spot. Nothing was comfortable.

So she paced with deep breaths, like moving would help the time pass quicker, like it would make the silence less blaring in her ears.

There was not a sound coming from the corridors outside nor from the stairwell below. The common room itself had been still since she stepped inside.

At some point, she had to admit that he wasn't coming.

When she walked up to the girls' dorms, everyone was asleep already, so she skulked to her four-poster, exchanging her robes for pyjamas once she drew the quarters closed. Though she tried to fall asleep, and though she was exhausted, she couldn't stop thinking about Roger — where he was and why he didn't come back. He was never one to blow off a date, no matter how informal. And _he_ had been the one to bring it up; _he_ was the one who seemed to want it. It was hard not to stew on the varied possibilities, hard not to feel hurt and embarrassed that she had wasted so much time waiting.

She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, still hoping that she might hear him enter the common room below, until her eyes grew heavy and closed, and her laboured breaths lulled her to sleep.

* * *

Hogwarts was abuzz the next morning with the chatter about the Tournament, with each student of age rushing to enter. A long line of seventh years and Durmstrang students snaked around the Entrance Hall, and Emily had to push through to get to breakfast.

Roger saw Emily before she saw him and was quick to call her over.

"Em! There you are," he said with a rather unsettling grin as if he was looking past her rather than at her at all. He scooted over to make a seat for her near him, but she didn't take it.

With her arms folded against her chest, she demanded, "What happened to you last night?"

He didn't even flinch at her tone, accusatory though it was, just replied, "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry about that."

She was careful to note that it _wasn't_ an answer. In fact, it barely even felt like an apology.

In the time it took for her to think up a response, he continued, "I've been waiting for you."

"For me?" she asked, still unsatisfied as she took the seat and shoved a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. "For what?"

Roger let out a chuckle and draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her into a tight side-hug. "I couldn't rightly enter the Tournament without my number one fan, could I?"

Emily tried not to cringe at the sentiment, forcing a smile as she shovelled more food down her throat.

Roger scribbled his name in near-illegible chicken scratch on a torn shred of parchment and thrust himself up from his seat at the Ravenclaw table, grabbing Emily by the arm alongside him. "C'mon; I want to do it now."

She heard her spoon clang against her half-eaten bowl as she begrudgingly accompanied Roger to the Entrance Hall. As they passed a group of Beauxbatons girls, he puffed his chest out, slowing his pace until they passed.

He made a show of it, the walk to the goblet, passing through Dumbledore's age line, and tossing his name inside, each step there and back taken with deliberate, measured confidence. Emily was, admittedly, unimpressed.

"You know," he said to her once he had finished, "it's a real shame _you_ can't enter."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Yeah, a real shame… I'm _so_ devastated to avoid a chance for near-death."

"You all right?"

"I'm _fine_ ," she said, her voice a grumble.

He took her hand in his and patted it with his other as he beamed. "It's not too bad, though, Em; you can still root for me."

Emily forced a smile to match. "Yeah…"

"Oh, c'mon, are you still mad that I was out?" he asked with a scoff. His eyes glanced briefly over her face but didn't linger. "I really am sorry."

She pursed her lips together and let a deep breath roll from her tongue. What good would it do to still stew on it? "Just forget it."

They re-entered the Great Hall, and Emily rushed back to finish her breakfast before the dishes cleared themselves. Roger shot her a quick and impersonal 'bye' before disappearing off again. She had almost missed him leaving.

Emily sat at the table in silent dejection, stirring the porridge in her bowl. Her stomach sank with each attempted spoonful, and she finally pushed it away, watching as the bowl and its contents disappeared from the table.

She was sure she'd regret that decision by lunchtime.

When breakfast was almost over and the Great Hall finally cleared out, the twins ran into the Entrance Hall followed by a chorus of rapturous applause. In their hands were the vials of ageing potion they had saved from last night. Lee trailed behind them with the third one looking less enthusiastic about the plan.

But the twins were eager. They grinned at each other and passed knowing nods before downing the potion.

So far, all was well.

Emily leaned against the wall and watched intently, more so than she wanted to, as they hopped across the age line with no notable consequence. It at first seemed like it could sense their trick, but it remained steady.

Then, they threw their names in, and when the goblet's fire sucked them up, the two gave each other congratulatory praises. They were so caught up in the moment that they didn't notice the fire's newfound scarlet glow, but Emily saw it.

There was no time to say anything before the fire shot out, sending their names out with it, and knocked them sideways onto the ground. When they stood up, their skin was wrinkled, their bodies frail, and their red hair replaced with grey and a matching beard — a message to all others that the age line was not to be fooled.

Lee quickly shoved his vial back into his pocket and rushed over to help the twins who were now fighting over whose fault the failure had been. The spectacle entertained the students at first, but they grew silent once other students began to enter their names. The boys, meanwhile, were escorted to the hospital wing.

The hospital wing was sterile and stunk of medicated herbs and potions when Emily walked in. She passed Sarah Fawcett and a Hufflepuff boy named Summers at the beds closest to the door. The boys were set next to each other on hospice beds, moaning and groaning and still shooting off insults to each other. As Emily approached, Fred and George were both still grumbling like old men, but their wrinkles had faded, their hair returned to its standard colour, the whiskers nearly gone.

"Ah, here comes the sentient 'I told you so,'" said Fred as he sat himself up against his pillow.

"Actually," she said, "I'm here to _apologize_."

Fred's eyes didn't move from her face. "Apologize? You?"

"I do that sometimes, yeah."

"Apologize for what?" asked George.

"For being horribly unsupportive." She took a calming breath and sat in the chair between their beds and looked from one to the other. She continued with charming facetiousness, "Can you find it in your gracious hearts to forgive me?"

"You're really laying it on thick, eh?"

"Of course she's sorry now, George," Fred said, crossing his arms. "She's got what she wanted."

Emily clenched her jaw, flexed the muscle before finally replying, "What's that?"

"We can't enter the Tournament."

There was a moment of silence that intercepted when Emily couldn't figure out what to say. But Madam Pomfrey appeared over her shoulder and practically pushing the three of them out the door, saying, "I've got plenty else to worry about with this ageing potion nonsense; you lot are free to go."

Though it was a Monday, classes had been cancelled for the day, so there was nowhere anyone _needed_ to be. It was too chilly to spend time outside, and there were so many students in the castle that each common area felt too claustrophobic, so there was little to do but wander. With each step the twins moaned and whinged, complaining that the potion they'd been given to combat the age line's effects effectively emptied out their stomachs. Emily's grumbled in unison to remind her that no, two spoonfuls of porridge did not a sufficient breakfast make.

With an impish half-smile, she got an idea — brilliant, if she did say so herself. She turned to the boys, _her_ boys, and offered, "How would you feel about an apology pie?"

And as she snuck down to the kitchens, with the twins following close behind, Fred smiled for what seemed like the first time in a while. "You know, Princey, I think we can forgive you after all…"

* * *

Later that night, the three schools gathered again in front of the goblet, and Dumbledore spoke briefly about the Tournament once more before dimming the lights and awaiting the goblet's choices.

It started with Durmstrang's Victor Krum, the obvious choice. The boy was built like a castle, himself, with the muscle and face of a professional Quidditch player.

The cup then spat out a lace doily, on which was written the name of the Beauxbatons champion — Fleur Delacour. She stood up, and Emily recognized her from the night before, from where she stood at Madame Maxime's side. She was tall and slender, her face contoured with a subtle rouge. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail, the sleek locks cascading down the curvature of her back. And then she smiled, a bright white, like pearls arranged in a perfect line.

Roger let out a cheering whistle in harmony with several others before she sat back down.

When it came time to choose for Hogwarts, Roger took Emily's hand in his own, squeezed it tight, and waited rather impatiently. He sat perfectly still and silent, like a statue holding its breath.

The entire hall was quiet until the goblet's fire hissed and spat out its third and final name.

"Cedric Diggory," Dumbledore announced, and Cedric jumped up from his seat, looking almost shocked. It took a moment for disappointment to pass amongst the remaining students before they could cheer for him as well.

He was as good a choice as any, Emily thought. And better him than Fred or George — or Roger, for that matter. At least he stood half a chance…

Dumbledore began his closing marks, congratulating the champions and encouraging fair and friendly competition throughout the Tournament, when the goblet grew a deep purple, its flames roaring above its rim. The room went silent as a single torn parchment fluttered down into Dumbledore's hand, and he announced a fourth champion:

" _Harry Potter_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the lack of updates! Shortly after the last chapter went up, my fiancé and I chose a wedding date, so I've been planning like a madwoman. I hope the wait for new chapters won't be this long ever again. Let me know what you think so far!


	14. Bet On Blue

With the champions chosen and the other schools returned home until the First Task, classes were back again in full swing at Hogwarts. Despite some passing whispers and gossip about the upcoming challenge, the excitement over the Tournament began to die down, and Emily finally found some time to herself.

Free time was hard to come by these days, between the prefect meetings and patrols and homework and spending time with Roger, so she was especially grateful to get back to Ravenclaw tower earlier than usual. Though earlier than usual was still pretty late and the girls were already asleep. Emily drew her quarters closed and fell limply against her bed.

She was tempted to relish in another chapter of the indulgent romance novel she'd brought from home and reached for it in her bag, feeling around for its well-worn cover. But her fingers skinned against something else — a harsh hardcover spine with an engraved title.

The book she had taken — perhaps,  _borrowed_  — had remained untouched beneath piles of parchment and textbooks since she'd picked it up from the library.

It was heavy in her arms when she grabbed it out of the bag, much heavier than she remembered, and she felt the indent of the words with her fingers along its cover:  _Defensive Magicks_.

She opened the book in her lap and flicked her wand. " _Lumos_."

The book's table of contents seemed to go on forever, outlining everything from "the art of Animagi" to the Unforgivable Curses, then called the "Sins of Magick." She shuddered at the memory of Defence class. She didn't need anything quite so drastic.

Her eyes skimmed over a pair of words at first, strange and unfamiliar:  _Legilimency & Occlumency_. There were several chapters dedicated to the two, and she flipped to the first of them.

_Page 649. About Legilimency. Legilimency is the magickal art of navigating another's mind and interpreting his emotions and memories. It is a complicated and hazardous magick that requires sufficient dedication and training by its user._

The book went on to describe the spell which existed as a bridge between Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts:  _Legilimens._  It described the precise flicker of wand motion required, it explained the necessary frame of mind for performance, and it highlighted in detail the benefit of the information one could receive from its use.

_As a skill, legilimency is particularly useful for defensive methods, wherein one might be able to determine an enemy's motivation or action based on his emote or prior action. Many an intelligencer have utilised this complex art in their work._

As she continued reading, letting the spell fall in a mumble from her lips as her wand mimicked the motion, each stroke practiced and precise, the book reiterated time and again that this magic was not to be used lightly or without proper precaution, lest it possibly backfire on an unskilled user. Learning legilimency would require practise and the aid of a knowledgeable tutor, at the very least.

In other words, it was not something she could learn from a  _book_  — even this book. Still, she kept reading, each word drawing her deeper and deeper into the subject, its history, its practical uses.

And she read on until the book's gentle whisper guided her to sleep; there was time to come up with a plan in the morning.

>>>

Emily awoke the next morning with the weight of a several-centuries-old book on her chest, still open to the fifth chapter on legilimency. The last she remembered, she was partway through its history as a defensive art, somewhere in the 13th century or so. Emily bookmarked the page so she could return to her research later, in the next sleepless night, perhaps, and she slid it beneath her pillow.

She quickly changed out of yesterday's clothes, brushed her teeth and her hair so she looked at least remotely presentable, and rushed up the stairs until she reached the eagle that guarded Dumbledore's office.

As a prefect she was luckily privy to the password: " _Pepper imps_ ," and the staircase opened for her, granting entry to the headmaster's office.

She knocked against the door, just beneath its crescent-shaped window. As she waited, she scuffed her heels against the floor, fidgeting in place until the door swung open, and his voice danced into the hall. "Come in."

Dumbledore's office was always larger than Emily remembered it being, the towering circular walls covered from floor to ceiling in books and knick-knacks and portraits of old headmasters. At the front of his desk sat his pet phoenix, perched on a stand, looking young and radiant. Dumbledore's office was naturally fairly dark, though there were slivers of sunlight that filtered in through tall windows. She stepped further inside until she reached him.

Lines of laughter crinkled around Dumbledore's eyes as he caught glimpse of her. "Ah, Miss Prince," he started and set a lemon drop into his mouth, "what brings you this way?"

Suddenly she could feel the pounding of her heart beneath her striped shirt, felt the sweat building into waterfalls on her skin. "Sorry to bother you, Professor; I'm sure you're busy with the Tournament and everything…"

"Never too busy to aid inquiring minds." He smiled, welcoming her to continue.

There was still time to change her mind; she could let out a squeak of 'never mind' and be downstairs in the Great Hall with plenty of time before the carriages left for Hogsmeade. She would be spared any judgement or mockery that her request would illicit, and she'd be free not to worry about it anymore.

But, no. She had come with a mission in mind, so she stayed, though she braced herself for the worst.

"Well, I was just wondering if we had classes on legilimency," she said, and it came out as more of a question from behind her shaky voice. "I was reading about it, and it seems like it could be a really good skill for an auror."

Dumbledore's jaw tensed for a moment. "Well, you would be correct about its usefulness, but it is unfortunately not a subject Hogwarts typically offers." Emily felt her face fall, but she tried to hide the disappointment. "However," he continued, "we do happen to have a skilled legilimens and occlumens on staff who may be able to help you if you request it."

Emily's excitement spread across her face faster than she could contain, and she crossed her fingers that it might be Flitwick or Moody or even Trelawney — professors she didn't mind spending extra time with and who, most importantly, wouldn't ask too many questions.

"Indeed, I would recommend that you speak to Severus as soon as possible."

_Severus_?!

Well, this would obviously be harder than she anticipated…

>>>

The walk down to the dungeons felt twice as long as it usually did, each step Emily took marked with utter dread. Severus was probably the last person she would want to go to for a favour, and as far as spending extra time beyond standard classroom obligations, he was pretty low on that list too.

But there really wasn't any other choice.

She rapped her knuckles hard against the door to the Potions classroom and snuck inside before Severus could object. He looked up at her from his work, and his face hardened.

"Miss Prince," he started, "to what do I owe the…  _pleasure_?" The last word fell as almost a snarl from his curled lips.

She figured the best plan of action was to come straight out with it: "I was hoping you'd be willing to teach me legilimency."

He held back laughter before he responded, solemnly, "Absolutely not."

"Why?" She took calculated steps towards his desk.

"It's dangerous and incredibly difficult," Severus said, not looking at her. His quill pressed a splotch of red ink in the shape of an 'X' across a first-year's test.

"I can handle it," she argued and set her fingers against the edge of the wooden desk; "I'm sure."

"I am unconvinced," he said, his tone uninflected.

She took a deep breath and started again, her hands moving to enthusiastically illustrate her argument. "I learn quickly, I'll practise every day, I'll do extra homework, whatever you want." When he didn't answer, she continued, "It's an immensely rare skill. So it'll give me a leg up for auror training since —"

Suddenly he looked up at her. He stood up from his chair with his hands flat against his desk, imposing as he towered over her. "Surely you're not still under the impression you'll be an auror…"

"I  _will_ ," she insisted, and he rolled his eyes. "So long as I can learn legilimency, I —"

"I do not teach such subjects," he said.

"But Professor Dumbledore —"

He spoke over her. "Has not included these as part of any Hogwarts curriculum. For very good reason."

Her eyes were pleading when they met his again, and he quickly looked away.

"Why can't  _you_  then? Just for me?"

He pulled another test from the stack and continued grading, his quill striking marks at speed. "It isn't a matter of whether I  _can_ ; it's a matter of whether I will, and to spare you further grovelling, the answer is no."

She finally released a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and it fell from her lips as a huff. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her composure and didn't look back at Severus as she stormed, without another word, out the door.

When Emily finally reached the Great Hall, she found Violet at the Ravenclaw table and took the seat next to her.

Violet seemed almost startled when she looked at her. " _Merlin_ … Are you all right, Em?"

Emily's cheeks were hot and a slight bit moister than they ought to have been. She probably looked a mess, but she shrugged. "I'm fine. You coming to Hogsmeade?"

"Can't. Absolutely swamped today," Violet said as she pushed a stack of books out in front of her. "But Roger was looking for you before."

Emily raised a brow. "Roger?"

She shrugged. "Something about making plans, I think? I'll admit I wasn't really listening."

As Emily went to thank her for the heads-up, she realized Violet had already gone back to her books, her nose deep in a chapter of Ancient Runes.

The first Hogsmeade trip of term was always a well-attended occasion, and this year, despite all the other excitement, was no different. Dozens upon dozens of students milled about the Entrance Hall, eagerly awaiting the carriages that would take them into the village.

Out of all the places Hogsmeade had to offer, Emily's favourite was the Hog's Head.

In third year during their first trip to Hogsmeade, all Emily wanted was a Butterbeer. The Three Broomsticks was so packed that Emily, Violet, and the boys couldn't even get inside for a taste. She fondly remembered wandering about in the brisk November cold until they stumbled upon the Hog's Head. It was dingy and had an air of menace about it, but when Fred dared her to go inside, she didn't even hesitate. The barkeep for the first-floor pub was polite enough, though brusque, and they had the pleasure of being his only guests for the entire day with enough Butterbeer to fill their fancy.

And,  _God_ , could she use a Butterbeer today…

She searched for Roger among the masses, pushing through crowds of overeager third years, until she caught him by Duncan and Cedric. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

"I'm glad you're here," he said once he broke from the group. If he noticed how awful she looked, he didn't mention it. She had wiped the wet from her eyes but could still feel her face, flush and hot.

"I heard you were looking for me?"

Things had been a bit tense between her and Roger lately, though she tried to keep it light and pleasant when they spent time together. She still hadn't forgotten their fight a few days previous, and she hadn't forgotten how long she waited for him in the common room only for him to never show.

"Yeah…" He shuffled uncomfortably in his spot, then took a deep breath and met her eyes with his. "I really owe you an apology, Em. I was selfish the other day, and I should've told you that plans changed, and I shouldn't have brushed you off when you got upset."

Emily blinked a few times, stunned. It was precisely the apology she had wanted, despite being four days too late, and he couldn't have said it any better if she had written it herself. "Thank you."

"I was being kind of a… prat, I guess, and I'm sorry." He paused to take her hand in his, entwining his fingers with hers. "And I'd really like to make it up to you, if I could."

She turned a dewy shade of pink in the cheeks as a smile crossed her mouth. "What did you have in mind?"

He set his lips gently against her temple. "It's a surprise. All you need to do is look great — as usual — and I'll take care of the rest."

She kissed him goodbye and rushed back to the dorm to change, pulling a light pink jumper, tights, and a black skirt from her trunk. She fixed her hair and swiped some shimmery gloss across her lips before rushing back down to meet Roger.

They packed with a group of fourth years into a carriage and were soon on their way to Hogsmeade.

During the ride, Roger leaned in to her and put his lips to her ear. "You look fantastic, by the way."

They lingered together in the carriage while the other students filed out, and Roger laced his fingers with hers as they walked hand-in-hand into the village.

"We can start with Butterbeers, if you want," Emily suggested as she headed toward the Hog's Head, excitedly dragging him along. Even the thought of the sweet drink was enough to make her feel comfortably warm in the November air.

"No way," he argued, and pulled her back alongside him. "I'm bringing you someplace special."

Roger took large steps when he walked, something she only noticed when she struggled to keep up with him, taking two steps for each one of his. He walked with a strong determination, like a horse with blinkers on, and all he could see was the mystery destination he had in mind for her.

They walked to the far end of Hogsmeade, past the aromatic decadence of Butterbeer and the surprisingly pleasant ambiance of the Hog's Head, turning down a thin side road, until they reached a small shop on the centre's edge. Roger stepped askance and nudged her towards the door, but she stopped short when she read the sign.

"Puddifoot's? Really?" She tried to cover up her displeasure. Under her breath, she muttered, "I hate this place."

But he had heard her. "What? Nobody hates Madam Puddifoot's." She could see his face faltering in a mix of surprise and disappointment.

Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop was known for being a couples' hub in Hogsmeade, its exterior painted in clashing pinks and greens with foggy windows and dim interior lighting barely visible upon looking in. She had been there once before — just once — and vowed she'd never go back.

But it was hard to hold herself to that when Roger looked so glum.

"I don't like… tea," she said, deciding it a diplomatic reason.

"There's plenty else you can get." He began rattling off the options before she cut him off.

"All right, let's just go." She fidgeted for a bit with the hem of her skirt.

Roger set his hand beneath her chin and lifted it until her eyes met his. "C'mon, Em, give us a smile; it's a nice day."

She forced the corners of her lips up into a slight curve, which seemed to satisfy for now, and Roger dropped his hand from her face.

He pulled the door to the teashop open, and Emily was greeted by the obnoxious jingling of wind chimes in the entryway, and Madam Puddifoot rushed over to greet them. She was a stout woman, much too wide to fit comfortably in the cramped spaces between tables; her black hair was pulled back in a messy bun atop her head, stretching tight the skin of her face. Her bright white apron was cut out like a lace doily, the fabric billowing in pockets as she moved.

"Good afternoon, lovebirds!" she greeted them, her voice shrill and grating. "What can I do for you?"

"Two for a back booth please," Roger said, shutting the door behind him. Madam Puddifoot eagerly invited them inside and urged them to follow her. As they passed through, they dodged around couples holding hands and kissing and practically shagging in the forefront of the shop.

Puddifoot ushered the two of them to the back corner of the tea shop where Roger's requested booth was waiting. The table for their hidden booth was decorated with lacy tablecloths, a gaudy arrangement of flowers in clashing colours, and more candles than should plausibly have fit on the table top. The booth itself snaked around the table in an unbroken semi-circle, and Roger and Emily sat in the centre.

"I'll be right back with some tea for you," Puddifoot said, and she was gone before Emily could request an alternative.

The teashop was quiet, even though there were a dozen couples already inside, almost as if a silencing charm had been cast on the patrons. It felt even quieter than the Hog's Head on a good day but far more unsettling.

Madam Puddifoot quickly returned with two steaming cups of tea, the spoons enchanted to stir themselves, and she set them on the table. Roger set two sugar cubes into his cup and mixed them in. Emily pushed her cup and saucer to the side.

"Thanks for coming with me," he said.

She tried to be polite. "Thanks for inviting me."

They sat together in silence for a while before Roger turned to her. He snaked his arm around her waist, and her back stiffed in response. His other hand was set just above her knee, his fingers running along her tights.

"Can you guess why I picked a back booth?" he asked with a roguish grin. When she shook her head, he pulled her tight and moved to kiss her, his body leaning over hers, pressed against her in the booth. She swung her head to the side to dodge it directly, and his lips landed squarely on her cheek.

" _Here_?" She scrunched up her face.

He pursed his lips and stared at her. "Well, yeah, that's what it's for, Em." He paused, his eyes focused on hers, and his features softened. "But if you'd rather not…"

"I dunno; it just feels weird." When she saw the excitement leave his eyes, she was quick to follow with an apology. "Sorry."

Roger shrugged in begrudging acceptance and lifted his tea mug to his mouth, and Emily watched the steam dance beneath his nostrils.

"You know, I really do love this place," he said finally after a long, meditated sip. He set his cup down again and shot her a playful wink as he added, "Even without the snogging."

Emily pressed her mouth into a hard line across her face and tried to contort it into a smile. "Yeah, it's… nice."

"You want more?" Roger asked and then caught sight of her still-full teacup. "Or… something else?"

"No, it's fine." She stood up from their booth. "I'll just go stretch my legs a bit, if that's all right?"

"Sure," he said and downed her tea too, which she was sure had long gone cold by now. He turned to her and moved again to kiss her; this time she met his lips with her own, briefly. "I'll take care of this."

Emily snuck out the door as soon as she could and waited for Roger outside as he paid the bill. She leaned against the teashop's large decorated window, staring longingly at the Hog's Head. What she wouldn't do for even a sip of Butterbeer right now…

Suddenly the door to the Hog's Head opened, and two matching flannel shirts with matching red hair stepped out. She smiled when she saw them and waved them over.

"Oi, Princey," she heard Fred call, "where were you?"

George looked almost sad as they approached. "We missed you for Butterbeers today."

All she had wanted was to go to the Hog's Head, ideally with her boys all together, but she wasn't going to push it. Had Roger asked what  _she_  wanted, she would've told him. But  _he_  wanted Puddifoot's, so that was that.

"Oh," she started, "well, Roger wanted to take me here, so —"

Fred cut her off, tilting his head toward the painted sign. "To Puddifoot's? You hate that place."

"Yeah." She was surprised he remembered that, and she chuckled, "More now than ever."

As the twins eyed her, she felt suddenly self-conscious in her outfit  _de choix_  and flattened out the edges of her skirt against her legs.

"You want to come check out Zonko's then?" offered George.

"I'm… waiting for him." She nodded back towards the door.

"Oh." The boys looked disappointed.

"But maybe we all can meet up at Honeyduke's later?" she quickly suggested, and Fred made a face.

"If it's going to be 'we all,'" he said, his nose scrunched up, "I'd rather not."

"You know, I'm not asking you to  _snog_  the guy," she said and crossed her arms against her chest, "just tolerate him. For my sake."

George started, "We know, but it's… Davies, and —"

Fred jumped in. "And I'm allowed to not like the bloke who's snogging my best mate."

His face was flush, and he looked away from her, dug the front of his shoe into the dirt until it stained. All three of them were quiet for a moment, and the bustle of the other students around them was all that kept it from being completely silent.

"Forget it," Fred said finally, and he stepped away. "Let's just go, George."

The two headed towards Zonko's, their steps in unison as they left her behind at the doorway to the teashop.

"Wait!" she said, and they turned back to face her. "He's just shooting the shite with Puddifoot in there. He'll probably take forever."

She rushed to catch up with them, and they headed to the joke shop together.

Going to Zonko's was always fun, but going with the twins was something else altogether. They would comment and critique, navigating the aisles and making mental notes for their own product. They'd be personally greeted by Zonko himself and permitted to sample some of the newer offerings.

Today, the new offerings were unlabelled toffee-coloured hard candies set on a silver plate at the front counter. George tossed one to Emily.

"Give it a go then, Em."

She set the candy on her tongue and was greeted with a delectable, creamy flavour that filled her mouth… and kept filling it, puffing up her cheeks and swelling up her lips until she looked like a balloon.

Emily could see her reflection in the store window, accidentally chasing away some third-years while she did, and she looked horrible. Her cheeks were full, her lips parted, and it looked like she'd been hit with some kind of jinx.

"You'd think by now you'd know better than to eat unidentifiable treats," Fred said, looking smug as he leaned against the counter.

"In my defence, you've never used me as a guinea pig for your nonsense," she replied. Or at least, she meant to. It came out, from her swollen face, as a series of mumbled, squished syllables.

Fred and George laughed, and Emily grew red in the face as she wheezed too, the air sucking in and out of engorged lips with a whistle.

Once the effects of the candy wore off, the three continued around the shop when something caught Emily's eye.

"What this?" She picked up a small black box, illegibly labelled in aggressive lettering. Below, it explained: 'Included balls create fire and ice breath.' She called the boys over. "Oi! This is new."

Fred flipped the thing in his hands, eyes scanning its description quickly. "You want to try it?"

She slapped three sickles on the counter for Zonko before they left the shop, and they tore open the packaging. Inside were two coloured marbles — one bright red, the other light blue — and Fred set them into his hand.

"Dibs on red," Emily said, and before he could protest, she popped it into her mouth. The heat from the marble spread quickly. She could feel the beginning of flames on her tongue as some steam escaped her nostrils.

Fred, in turn, took the blue, and she watched as his face grew pale, his breath an icy cloud as he exhaled.

"Mine's better," she said, challengingly, and blew a stream of fire into the air; Fred wasn't convinced.

So they decided to make a game of it, to see which was more powerful. Winner owed the loser, and George by default, a treat of choice at Honeydukes.

Fred quickly blew a cloud of freezing air at Emily, and when it hit her neck, it elicited a fitful of giggles. He wiggled his brows. "What d'you think of that?"

She went to set her hand against the spot he had hit, and it tingled at the touch, sending a shiver straight along her spine.

"I  _think_  that counts as cheating," she shot back, careful not to let the flames fly off her tongue, "eh, George?"

"This is between the two of you," said George with a playful shrug. "I'll be getting cauldron cakes regardless."

"You heard the man." Fred took a step closer to Emily. "Between you and me."

Emily straightened up to be as tall as she could be, though Fred still seemed to tower over her. "You think you're real cheeky, but if I blow when you're not expecting it, I'll singe your eyebrows off."

"Quit bickering and go at it already!" George snapped. When they both turned to him, he regained his composure. "On the count of three: One… two… go!"

At George's word, Fred and Emily blew simultaneously at each other. Fred's was cold as snow, a line of ice aimed straight for Emily's nose, but her fiery breath headed it off. They inched closer in the hopes they'd get more leverage against the other.

Emily pushed her breath from her body so hard she thought for a moment she might pass out. Fred looked like he was getting woozy as well. But she'd be damned if she let him win.

He was staring at her with a look of sheer determination, his brow furrowed, his mouth contorted into a smirk as he blew the ice at her. His eyes glanced from her eyes to her lips and back; hers did the same to him.

She was so focused on his lips, his freckles, his crooked nose, his dark brown eyes that she almost forgot they were playing a game at all, until she felt the chill of his breath against her skin, and it sent gooseflesh across her body. She could almost taste his breath, cool like peppermint.

Within moments, their mouths were barely apart, combatting ice and fire turning to water between them. When it splashed on her lips, Emily stopped, her knees buckling beneath her.

_Well, this was new…_

Her breath caught in her throat, and she choked on the marble before she coughed it back into her hand. She felt suddenly queasy and took a step back.

"What's this then?" demanded a voice from behind her. She jerked around to see Roger. "I've been looking all over for you, y'know."

"Sorry," she said, residual steam still filtering from the corners of her mouth, and Fred spit his marble back into his hand in one last puff of cold smoke. "We were just —"

"I  _saw._ "

George tried to come to her defence. "Listen, mate, it wasn't —"

Roger ignored him, stepping between her and the twins. "I just wanted take you out for a nice date, and then… this?" She could see the redness building in the inside of his eyes. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders tensed up. With one last huff, he stormed off, leaving Emily rather stunned behind him.

"' _A nice date_ ,'" Fred said, mimicking Roger. He snorted with laughter. "Yeah, right."

"Stop it." Emily said and shot him a stern glare. She ran her fingers through her hair, mussing the style as she pulled through a knot, and glanced with worried eyes behind her at Roger before turning back to Fred and George. "I should go; he's really upset."

Before they could argue, she rushed after him, sending a sorry look over her shoulder to the boys.

The carriage ride back to the castle was sat in silence with Roger stewing in anger, and Emily couldn't stop thinking about what had happened — Fred and the marbles and the closeness and their breath and how it should have been so weird but wasn't…

>>>

November flew by in a flurry of exams and excitement, and before anyone knew it, the First Task was dawning.

The Quidditch Pitch, which had been roped off since the Tournament was announced, was set up stadium-style now, the seating opened to spectators. The interior was filled with rocks and dirt and sand which covered the plush green grass beneath it.

Roger and Emily had long made up since the incident at Hogsmeade. At his request, she made a conscious effort to be more 'present' when they were together, and he agreed never to drag her back to Puddifoot's. At least at first, Emily also tried to avoid the twins when Roger was around so he didn't get the wrong idea — maybe so  _she_  didn't get the wrong idea either. The last time they had been together, alone, was so close to trouble, and she didn't need any more help with trouble, especially not from the boys who made trouble their specialty. Beyond a polite wave in the corridors, she made herself scarce — for her sake and Roger's.

Though he didn't say anything at first, Emily could tell that Roger was grateful for the effort, and after a while, he even admitted he might have misunderstood the situation and asked that she pass along an apology to Fred and George.

She did not. It was more sensible to forgo the opportunity than to risk reopening the wound. That she owed to all of them.

In the days leading up to the First Task of the Tournament, Emily didn't see much of Roger beyond classes and prefect meetings. They would sometimes sit together at dinner, but otherwise he seemed preoccupied. And when the other schools returned, she saw him, somehow, even less.

On the day of the First Task, though, they sat together in the section of the open-air stands designated for Hogwarts students, finding seats near the centre of the stands. By the time they arrived the pickings were slim with only a small smattering of seat to choose from. With the addition of two extra schools, it felt especially snug. Emily hadn't ever been claustrophobic, but she felt it now.

"It's a bit tight here," said Roger as he adjusted himself in his seat. "D'you mind if I rest my arm over?"

"No, go ahead."

He draped his arm over her shoulder, and she leaned a bit into him. Despite how cramped and ill-fitting the stands were, she felt almost comfortable.

From several rows above them, Emily and Roger heard the twins: "Place your bets here! A silver sickle for Beauxbatons's most beautiful! A galleon on Gryffindor's chosen! Choose your champion."

They pushed their way through the crowd, betting box in tow, collecting wagers as they went.

Emily turned to Roger. "Who do you think will win?"

"I'd bet on Fleur." He scoured the ground near the Champion's tent.

She raised an eyebrow. "The girl from Beauxbatons?"

"Yeah," he said and smiled. "She's real bright, y'know, and clever. We were talking after she got picked, and I think she really might have it."

Roger's sudden unwavering faith in Fleur Delacour was disconcerting, but Emily tried to shake it off, even though it felt a bit like she had swallowed a bowl of rocks. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, buried under the weight of his arm on her shoulder. "I'd put my money on Cedric, but Potter tends to be a lucky sonuva-bitch, so you never know. Either way Hogwarts wins, yeah?"

Roger shrugged and let out a quiet grunt in response. A silence — their seemingly ever-present third wheel — returned to the space, what little there was, between them.

When Emily heard the twins again, she jumped up as if on reflex. Roger didn't seem fazed.

As she walked up the stands, she pulled some change from her pants pocket for an icebreaker. It was unnerving to feel like she needed one after all this time. It was just Fred.

She held the silver coin up to him. "I'll go a sickle on Diggory."

Fred looked past her to another Ravenclaw, wrapped tight in a blue-and-bronze scarf. "Oi! Fawcett, you in?"

Emily moved back into his line of vision. "Really, Fred?"

"Oh, I thought we were still playing the 'ignore each other' game," he said finally and straightened himself. The betting box dangled from a leather strap around his neck. "You know, you were winning 'til now."

"Real mature," she said, her voice teeming with sarcasm. She set plunged her empty hand into the back pocket of her jeans.

"It's nice that Davies  _let you_  come over here, though. Real big of him."

"Actually,  _he_  didn't say anything about it." This wasn't entirely true — Roger's apology pressed hard against the back of her throat, but she swallowed it again, holding it in place.

Fred's brow furrowed. "Then wh—?"

"I figured it was better… for a while… to…" Emily dropped her sentence. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. "Sorry." He shrugged off her apology like she never even gave it, so she continued, "I'm just trying to fix things."

"What's there to fix?" He tried to fold his arms over his chest, but the betting box was in the way.

She took a step towards him, temperate and measured. "C'mon, you need to understand —"

Fred didn't budge. "Sure, I understand completely. You'd rather hang out with that obnoxious git than your own friends."

"Maybe I'd rather spend time with Roger because  _he_  cares," she mumbled, without realizing it.

Fred let out a haughty laugh. "Oh yeah, cares so much, knows you so well, he takes you to your least favourite spot in Hogsmeade to prove it."

"Well at least he  _tries_ ," she hissed back at him.

The accusation struck Fred across the face, and he blinked at her in stunned silence. He didn't answer except to let out a deep breath.

In the silence that echoed, she said, "I am still sorry, by the way. Not sure if you heard me before."

"I heard you," he snapped, his eyes glowering. "That why you're here?"

She bit her lip and nodded, turning the coin between her fingers to distract her from the awkwardness. "Um… a sickle for Diggory, yeah?"

For a moment, it seemed like they were okay. There was no trouble. The hurt feelings, though still fresh, seemed to dissipate. Until Fred's lip curled into a sneer.

"Is that  _Davies's_  bet too?"

Emily scoffed. Why wouldn't he just let it go?

"No, he's pushing for Delacour." Her voice was a low growl that seemed to catch him off-guard. "But  _I'm_  a sickle for Diggory." She waited for him to respond with some kind of snappy stylish comeback, but he didn't. She held the sickle in his nose, so close that it nearly brushed skin. "Now, are you gonna take the money, or what?"

A loud whistle cut through the air to signal the start of the First Task, and everyone was instructed to take their seats.

"Sorry, Princey," Fred said, snapping the betting box shut and thrusting it under his arm, "too little too late."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I certainly hope this chapter was worth the wait! Things are getting interesting, I'd say...
> 
> Let me know if you agree! ;)


	15. Scents and Sensibility

It was a well-documented fact that Emily Prince was too bloody stubborn for her own good.

And if anyone needed to ask, the proof was in the pudding. When Violet and Flitwick and the rest questioned her desire to become an auror, she doubled down. When Severus rejected her request for legilimency lessons, she vowed to become a self-taught legilimens by term’s end, occupying her spare time with unrelenting research and practise. When the twins gave her shite for dating Roger, she told them to sod off about it until she  _forced_  a semblance of neutrality. And when she swore that she wasn’t going to let Fred win without a fight, she damn well meant it.

But even she had nothing on the hard-headedness of a slighted Fred Weasley.

After the First Task had ended, she went to look for him, to try again at a proper apology, but he was nowhere to be found. At dinner that night, he kept himself occupied talking to Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet and left no opportunity for anything else. Emily even tried to go through George as proxy, though she regretted the uncomfortable position it left him in — and Fred  _still_  refused to speak to her.

Days of silence progressed to weeks, and despite the dejection she felt, Emily couldn’t quite bring herself to drop her cause. She spent more time with Violet, more time focused on patrols, more time in the library pretending to finish her homework. She spent as much time as she could with Lee and George, when they would talk with her. But she couldn’t manage to break Fred’s resolve.

The boy was damn obstinate.

Still, there were other things to worry about. The holidays were coming up, and with them came an increasing load of homework from nearly every class. And in the last week before the Christmas holiday, every class seemed to drag on.

Especially McGonagall’s.

Emily waited with baited breath for the bell to ring — surely, it was only a matter of seconds now — and release them to lunch. Transfiguration  _used_  to be more bearable back when she had someone to talk to. She eyed the clock as it ticked, long and drawn out, as if someone had slowed it by magic.

McGonagall assigned their homework for the holiday: a reading from the text and a summary of human transfiguration to prepare for the first lesson after Christmas. The students scribbled the note into their list of assignments and prepared to leap from their seats to lunch. The bell was  _about_ to —

“Before you go,” Professor McGonagall started and stepped in front of the door, “I have an announcement.”

The students fell back into their chairs in a chorus of dejected groans. McGonagall straightened at the front of the room.

“As the host school of the Triwizard Tournament, Hogwarts has the honour of putting on the Yule Ball celebration, which will give us an opportunity to fraternize with our foreign guests. If you’ve been wondering why your packing lists requested you bring dress robes this year, now you know, and yes, you must wear them.” A light whisper spread amongst the students before McGonagall continued. “The Ball will feature an elaborate feast, music, and dancing, starting at eight o’clock on Christmas day and going until midnight. It should be rather fun for you all. And I trust that you will behave with the proper decorum for such an event.” Emily could’ve sworn she saw McGonagall glare at Fred before her face softened back into a smile.

Once the bell finally  _did_  ring, the students were agush about the Yule Ball — who would go with whom, what everyone’s dress robes looked like, how much fun it would be to dance all night. The other schools would return by the end of the week, to give everyone time to prepare for the Ball.

Emily hadn’t ever been to a proper Ball, or even a proper party, for that matter, and she felt herself getting drawn up in all the daydreaming. Wouldn’t it be fun to spend the night dancing with Violet and Lee and George and Fred?

It was just a matter of convincing Fred to get over himself and let her apologize so everything could be good again. And now was as good a time as any to try.

“So… there’s a Ball now,” she said, catching up with Fred as they walked to the Great Hall. Her bag knocked against her knees with each large step she took to maintain pace with him.

If it was even possible, Fred started to move even faster so that Emily was nearing a jog to keep up.

“A  _fancy_  Ball, eh,” she repeated, between laboured breaths. “What do you think about that?” Fred just kept walking. “Really?” With a leap that cramped her calves, she jumped in front of him. “Oi!”

He sidestepped to avoid her, like he knew she’d be there. Emily’s shoulders tensed as he knocked her with a light full-body check, not even breaking stride for a half-arsed apology.

Her face grew angry red with embarrassment as she shouted behind him, “Yeah, well, who needs you anyway?”

…  _Jerk_.

She heard footsteps behind her, recognized the gait and direction, and knew it was Violet before she even turned around.

“You know,” Emily started with a sigh, not turning from where she stood staring after Fred, “I still don’t know what exactly I’ve done wrong.”

“I doubt even he does,” said Violet, slinging her arm across Emily’s back. “It’s been like this for so long it just seems like stubborn habit at this point.”

Emily pulled her hair back and over her left shoulder, which was still a bit sore. She turned suddenly to Violet. “Could you try and talk to him for me? Just see if he’ll —”

“You can’t keep doing this, Em.” Violet looked sympathetically at Emily. “Just give him some time, some space. Hang out with Roger. Read a book. Do your  _homework_ , maybe. Fred will come ‘round… eventually.”

Emily let a deep breath pass through parted lips. “I know you’re right… I just — I can’t leave it like this, not with the Ball coming up.”

Violet parroted back. “Ball?”

“Yeah, the Yule Ball at Christmas. McGonagall just told us now.”

Sixth year Transfiguration was McGonagall’s first class that morning, and Violet and the rest of them didn’t go until afternoon, where they would surely get the same announcement.

“There’s a Ball, and you’re just telling me this  _now_?!” Violet’s eyes went wide like she was looking at an all-you-can-eat Honeydukes buffet. “Now I’ll have to worry about a date!”

“‘s’not until Christmas, Vi. There’s plenty of time.”

Violet scoffed playfully and nudged Emily’s arm with her elbow. “Easy for you to say when you’ve got Roger.”

 _Roger_. Emily felt her stomach flip. She hadn’t considered going to the Ball with Roger. In retrospect, yes, it was the obvious plan, but now that it stared her in the face, she felt almost nauseous.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Roger, she  _did_ , but it just… it wasn’t what she expected, being with him. He was sweet, he was bright, he was handsome, and he was a hell of a lot less trouble than the twins were. But when she thought about being with him, there was no excitement, no desire. Like the novelty wore off and she was left with the vague memory of the dream that once was.

When Emily finally shook herself from her thoughts, Violet was mid-rant about the lack of prospects at Hogwarts and that she’d have to hold her breath that she caught the eye of a Beauxbatons boy or else she’d be stuck going alone.

Maybe alone wasn’t a bad thing, though. Violet could go alone, and she could go alone, and they could go alone together... if only there were a way to gently break that to Roger...

Emily let out a frustrated huff, and Violet’s head snapped to face her.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Emily smiled. “I just doubt you’ll have any trouble finding a handsome Durmstrang boy who’d be just dying to take you.”

“Durmstrang, eh?” Violet thought for a moment before shrugging it off. “I guess no matter what it’ll be the group of us, right? Me, you, Roger, and the boys?’

Emily looked over at the Gryffindor table where Fred and George sat. Fred’s arms were crossed against his chest, his body slumped down in a huff. When he caught her glancing at him, he quickly turned away, drawing himself back into the table’s current conversation.

“If they’ll even want to,” she said and shifted uncomfortably. She was suffocating under the weight of whatever their fight was about. Was being with Roger still worth  _this_? If Roger was even the problem at all…

“This will all clear up before then, Em.”

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” Emily decided, and she stepped in the direction of the Gryffindor table.

Violet caught her by the arm. “That’s not a good idea. And you know it.”

“Obviously I need to show him how stupid he’s being.” Emily pulled herself from Violet’s grip. “Trust me. He’s had plenty of time to reach that conclusion on his own.”

“I just don’t want this to backfire on you,” Violet said, dropping her hand. She brushed her hair back behind her ear. “He’s in a right foul mood, and —”

“ _And_  I’ll knock him loose from it.” Emily grinned at her friend and continued on her way. “At least, I’ve got to try.”

 The steps she took toward the Gryffindor table started out bold, and she fought her hesitation the closer she got. It felt like everyone was staring at her — well, everyone except for Fred and George. She took a deep breath and dove in.

“So… how’s things with my guys?” She sat between the twins at the table, spreading her arms around their shoulders casually, like the comfort of the motion would help ease the tension that spread at her presence.

George smiled. “Hey, Em. Good to see —”

Fred broke in, pushing her off from around him. “Are you deaf or dumb, Prince?”

“Excuse me?”

With a forlorn sigh and a roll of his eyes, George turned his focus back on his lunch, leaving Fred and Emily to duke it out on their own.

“Leave me the bloody hell alone,” Fred said. His voice left behind an echoing rumble as he looked away from her again.

“I just want to talk things out,” she said, holding her hands out in a show of peace.

“Well, I don’t.” He angled his body away from hers, like she was contaminated with some disease that could kill him, and scooted over more towards Angelina and Alicia who sat on his other side.

“Fine,” Emily said, her response curt. She tried to hide the hurt that began to cloud her face.

“ _Fine_.”

She swallowed everything else she desperately wanted to say — the apologies, the jokes, the casual chatter she so missed. “Then I’ll just go, yeah?”

Fred shrugged. He didn’t turn to look at her, just mumbled under his breath, “Good riddance.”

Emily maintained her composure as she walked away, as Violet tried to quell the upset with a playful ‘told-you-so’, as she felt Fred’s glare burn through the back of her skull, as she passed the twins in uncomfortable silence after dinner. But that night, once she was finally alone, she fell apart in the silence of the girl’s dormitory.

>>> 

When Emily entered the Potions classroom on Friday morning, the last day before holiday, the air smelled… pleasant, for once. There was a sort of sweetness that permeated the musty odour of mould and moisture, and Emily could hear each student suck in a deep whiff of it as they entered. She was surprised how comfortable the temperature was in the dungeons, despite snow falling in heavy sheets outside.

The source of the smell and the warmth was a bubbling cauldron on a desk in the room’s centre. A thin, silvery smoke wafted up from the potion’s depths, hazing everything in its wake.

The students stared at it as they walked past. It was mysterious but wonderful — and much more pleasant than the Polyjuice Potion from the previous week looked or smelt — as it blew a cloud of peaceful contentment through the room.

Severus arrived to the classroom soon afterward, slamming the door shut behind him. He wasted no time with lesson introductions, and the calmness dissipated.

“Amortentia is,” Severus began, and at the mere mention of the potion’s name, Violet’s hand shot straight up, so he continued, “hand down, Miss Briggs — a potion which causes powerful infatuation and obsession in the drinker.”

“Innit the strongest love potion in the world?” Jared Stebbins asked from the back of the room.

“No, you insufferable boy,” Severus replied, nearly snapping his neck with the speed at which he turned around. “A potion cannot create love — only mimic it, at best.”

The two boys sitting on either side of Stebbins struggled to stifle their laughter, and Severus continued his lecture.

“Amortentia creates a false sense of infatuation and obsession in the drinker. It is tasteless and practically colourless, but it is not odourless. In fact, amortentia can be distinguished by its smell, which is different to each individual based on scents they enjoy.” As he approached the cauldron, his face scrunched up, and he took a large step back. “I will ask that each of you come to the front to examine the sample I have brewed; you will use this as your benchmark today.”

The students lined up and snaked around the room to get another whiff of the potion. Each was asked to briefly describe what it smelt like in their notes.

As they scurried back to their seats, Violet smiled. “Smelled like peppermint. That’s the best. Peppermint and a brand-new book — y’know, the pages, the way they have that smell when you first open ‘em — and Earl Grey tea.”

When Emily took her breath, it was too much all at once, like the scents were fighting against each other, and they weren’t distinct enough to smell them individually like Violet could.

“The instructions for brewing amortentia are on page 493 of your textbooks,” Severus said and took a seat at his desk. “You have until the end of class.”

Emily flipped to the page in her text, and Violet began to set up their cauldron on the desktop.

“Last day before holiday,” she grumbled as she pulled out the rest of their supplies. “Snape  _would_  start a whole new lesson.”

Emily chuckled as she counted out the ingredients. “And just think, he hasn’t even assigned a holiday term paper yet.”

“Don’t give him any ideas.”

Before they could start, Emily needed to pull the necessary ingredients from the Potions classroom’s stores across the room, just behind where she and Violet  _used_  to sit. To get there, she needed to pass the twins at their usual desk. Fred looked less grumpy than had been the new standard, at least until he saw her, at which time his face contorted into a mix of disgust and discomfort with a layer of dejection barely visible in the cracks.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him except in passing, and tried to be as quick as possible while she collected everything they’d need for the potion in one shot. _Anything_  so she wouldn’t have to come back and subject herself to his reaction again.

When it was over, Emily and Violet mixed together the start of the potion, following the textbook directions. A pinch of pearl dust, two ashwinder eggs, stir anticlockwise, add five rose thorns, simmer.

Emily could see the potion bubbling as a mother-of-pearl sheen developed throughout the liquid, but it had no distinguishable smell yet.

Above the chatter of whispering partners, a groan erupted from the other side of the room, and Fred’s voice blurted out, “You’ve always got to be right up my arse, eh, Prince?” He spun around, nearly knocking over his cauldron as he did, and he looked down sheepishly when he realized she wasn’t there.

“I’m all the way over here, you lousy git,” she called back to him, her voice cold and scratching against her throat.

It was inappropriate decorum for the classroom, sure, and certainly more so for a prefect, but he started it, and she couldn’t help herself.

In the chaos between the two of them, the room had gone silent, save for the flicker and flare of burners and the tapping of Severus’s fingers against his teachers’ desk. Everyone was staring at them, glancing back and forth between them both in stunned silence, each face frozen in shock at the scene.

Fred’s brow furrowed, and he stared down at the bubbling cauldron. For now, at least, it was over, and the rest of the class hurriedly returned to their work.

“What was  _that_  all about?” Violet asked in a hushed whisper when Emily turned back to their table.

Emily shrugged, her face redder than she wanted to acknowledge, and replied, “Who even knows?”

Violet shook her head with wide eyes and a sigh before returning to focus again on their amortentia. “All right, give it a whiff.”

Emily did, and she was hit with three distinct scents: Butterbeer to start, warm and sweet as it filled her nose; then the smell of fresh ink, which she had grown accustomed to and even fond of over her years at Hogwarts; and finally there was the smell of fireworks already let off, burnt and blown, but that wasn’t it – mixed with it was the marked aroma of citrus, oranges specifically. And it was familiar but strange in the same. Completely impossible to place.

Looking up at Violet with brows knitted, her palms set hard against the table, Emily said, “Think it might be a bit off.”

“What?” She bent over the cauldron and took a deep inhale herself. She paused for a moment, ruminating on it before she turned back to Emily again. “I got mine. Same as the sample. Peppermint, paper, and tea.” She chuckled a bit and added, “You need your nose checked? I think that last failed batch of Polyjuice might’ve messed you up.”

From the corner of her eye, Emily caught a glimpse of Fred, leaning over his and George’s potion, his head practically submerged in the cauldron.

She had the urge to call out and tease him about it, to joke that if he dove any further in his nose would hit the bottom, but given their previous outburst, it didn’t seem appropriate. Her chest panged at the thought that maybe they wouldn’t ever joke like that again.

As class continued and all of the potions were brewed and graded, with Fred and George’s potion being begrudgingly graded the highest, Emily could feel Severus’s eyes on her. When the bell rang and the students scurried off to their next classes, she knew better than to try to leave before the inevitable scolding she admittedly deserved. She took hesitant steps toward his desk and braced herself for the impact.

“You should already know what I have to say to you,” Severus’s voice rumbled as he glared her down.

“Yes, sir,” she said in little more than a whimper.

“You know very well that I do not tolerate this type of unbecoming behaviour in my class.”

Eyes averted, she could only repeat, “Yes, sir.”

“Then there’s no more to say. I’m deducting fifty points from Ravenclaw.”

She still couldn’t bring herself to look at him, and her gaze moved to his desk, scattered with papers, messier and more unkempt than usual. Beneath a stack of half-graded exams, she saw a sheet of stark white paper filled with a beautiful script: her mother’s handwriting, she’d recognize from anywhere. Emily attempted to decipher what she could of it from upside-down, to see the response Severus set aside in black ink on parchment.

She could feel her chest tighten, feel her breath catch in her throat, choking her. Letters from her mother were never casual. Sending a note via owl was only done in the worst case, and in Emily’s last five years at Hogwarts, she had only received one or two letters, the most recent of which was to inform her that her grandmother had passed away so she could attend the funeral over holiday. There was no telling how rarely Severus received mail from Noelle Prince.

What could her mother possibly want from Severus? Worse yet, what did  _he_ want? What was he telling her? She could only begin to imagine each nit-picking comment about Emily’s behaviour, her grades, her social shortcomings. How she asked for help learning a relatively unknown defensive art form. How she shirked her Prefect duties, and how right he was to have spoken out against her receiving the role at all.

She tilted her head to get a better look at the envelope. “That a letter from my mum?”

He moved to cover it with his hand, to push it further beneath the other papers. “My personal correspondences are none of your concern.”

“They are when it’s my mum!” she argued and moved to pull it from his grasp.

As Severus flinched she caught sight of a few words in his response:  _Secrets. Julian. Debt. Dark. Danger. Magic. Home._

His hand slapped against the letter to her mother, holding it tight to the surface of his desk. She pulled her hand away.

Above his fingertips, her mother’s script read plain as day:  _Severus, I am so terribly afraid._

But afraid of what? What did she know? And what did  _he_?

 “You  _owe_  me the truth.” Emily took a step back and let a deep breath fall from her lips. She dropped her hands and felt the length of her wand in her back pocket. “Why’s she scared?”

“I owe no explanation. Not to you, not to anyone, and not about anything at all.”

There was too much at stake to just let things go. And Emily Prince was too bloody stubborn for that. She wanted — no,  _needed_  — to know what the hell was going on. And if he refused to come out with it willingly, maybe there was another way…

 

“ _Legilimens!_ ” she cried and flicked her arm in the curved motion she had seen outlined in the book.

 

But Severus was quicker, even without the added power of his wand in hand, shooting the spell so fast that it flew back at her.

 

She saw her father, heard a muffled argument with her mother from behind closed doors. She saw her mother break down in tears. Saw Severus at the house the first time, the recollection fuzzy. Saw her letter, saw her mother crying into Severus’s arms. The dementors on the train last year. Sitting on top of Fred as his nose bled. Him standing over her, his face red as they fought about Roger. Her first kiss with Roger. Being so close to Fred at Hogsmeade. The silent carriage ride with Roger. Fighting with Fred in Potions just earlier…

When she came to, she was on the floor of the Potions classroom. Her body shivered against the stone, her knees cold, legs splayed beneath her.

There was a flash of humanity in Severus’s eyes for the briefest moment before it disappeared once more. “You will not once, not ever again, provoke me. Do I make myself clear?”

She couldn’t see through the tears that cascaded down her face, couldn’t well hear past her ragged breaths, her body a trembling mess on the floor. “Yes, sir.”

Outside the Potions classroom Fred stood leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. When she stumbled out the door, breathless, he jumped to attention.

She was quick to wipe her tears with her sleeve before she looked up at him and snapped, “What do  _you_  want?”

He didn’t look at her when he answered. “I came back to — I was going to —”

Before she realized it, the words had already left her mouth, “I’m  _leaving you alone_.”

He moved to speak again, but she pushed past him, knocking his body with her shoulder. He clutched his arm and stared after her for a moment, watched as she rushed down the hall, but turned away once she was out of sight.

For a moment, it was all Emily could stop herself from doing to run back to the dormitory and bury herself beneath her bedsheets as the world crashed around her. Instead, she headed straight through the Entrance Hall and outside.

With only her robes, the winter air had a bitter nip to it, and the snow stuck to her hair. She didn’t much notice at first since she was warmed by anger and embarrassment and frustration, the air around her comfortably numb. She still didn’t know why her mother mentioned being scared, she had just attacked Severus, and on top of that, she was a piss-poor legilimens who would need far more practice before she was worth anything as an auror.

Emily stopped for a moment at the tree, her tree —  _their_  tree — just outside the Quidditch pitch, and fell back into the snow. Things had never been so complicated. There was Roger and Fred and then she went and literally  _attacked_ Severus, a move that, in addition to being just so stupid, would surely get her expelled from Hogwarts, though she was surprised he didn’t do it on the spot.

In the silence and the cold, amidst her frustration and overwhelm, she only wanted one thing: Fred.

Emily tried to shake from her mind that she had just destroyed her opportunity to make amends with him. He had come back… to apologize? To finally talk? And she had pushed away. And for what? To sit alone in the cold and wish he was here with his trademark jokes and some hot cocoa stolen from the kitchens.

“Em?”

The voice was distant, and she couldn’t see its source through the falling snow.

“Emily?”

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she jumped up to greet him.

Roger stepped through the snow, his brow furrowed as he stared at her. “What are you doing out here?”

Her face fell, and she quickly wiped her eyes, smearing makeup along her hand. “Um… getting some air.”

“In the snow?” he asked. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Just nippy.” She gripped her now-soaked bag tightly against her chest. For a moment, she considered whether she owed him an explanation about everything — what she’d been feeling, her hesitations about the Ball, anxieties about their relationship affecting everything else… “I’m fine though. You don’t have to stay out here.”

“Well, I was actually hoping…” he started, taking her hand in his and then dropping it suddenly, as if he never meant to take it at all, “can we talk?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” he said. There was a silence that infiltrated the cool air, and he wouldn’t look at her. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She let out a huff, her breath dancing like a cloud in front of her. “What do you mean?”

“This. You and me.” He took a deep breath, and she watched the steam waft from his nostrils before he sucked it back in with an inhale. “I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

“Why?”

Roger wrung his hands together then thrust them quickly into his pockets. “I’m not looking to hurt you. You know that.”

“Just tell me why.” Her voice was curt. “You at least owe me an explanation.”

“I —” He stopped himself, rubbing his hand along his neck to loosen the tense muscles.

“Out with it!” she snapped, her cheeks flush with anger and humiliation.

His feet shuffled against the ground. When he spoke, it was quiet. “Fleur Delacour asked me to the Ball, and I can’t say no.”

Emily bristled against the news.  _The Ball?_

She narrowed her brow when she looked at him again. “You  _can’t_  or you don’t want to?”

“Well, I’ve already said yes,” he said, and when she flinched, he was quick to add, “I’m sorry!”

“You don’t look sorry.” She fought back embarrassed tears as she spoke. “You look like a complete arse.”

He hesitated for a moment, moved as if to speak, maybe to try apologizing again, then walked away, leaving Emily alone in the freezing snow.


	16. A Personal Favour

The week before the Ball flew by in a flit and flurry of rejections. Harry Potter had asked Cho Chang who was already spoken for, Patty was politely turned down by Adrian Pucey, and of course, Emily still felt residually burned by Roger’s rejection.

Still, the Ball was all anyone could talk about, and Emily tried to filter conversation for literally anything else, but it was no use. The girls constantly gushed about their attire and their makeup. The boys compared dates. And Emily had no escape from it all.

The day before Christmas Eve, Professor Flitwick called the Ravenclaw fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh years to the Charms classroom for what he called an emergency meeting just before lunchtime. Violet carried a handful of books, even though the school was on holiday, and passed Emily her Potions text to use for the essay Severus had so kindly assigned.

For the entire walk with Violet down to the third floor, Emily could feel her heart pounding in panic. Her hands were so clammy it was like she had just dipped them into the Black Lake, and she was nervous she would let Violet’s book slip from her grip altogether. She tried to act normal, but it was hardly convincing.

“What’re you so worked up for?” Violet asked, shifting the weight of three textbooks to her other arm.

Emily wanted to confess her dread towards seeing Roger, who she knew would be there, but Violet didn’t know what happened between them the week before — nobody did. And for now, to save what little was left of her pride, she wanted to keep it that way.

“Just unusual for Flitwick to use the word ‘emergency,’” she said with a slight shrug as she tried to calm her heart rate. “Wonder what for.”

“Probably just the standard ‘behave yourself in the presence of our guests’ spiel.” Emily could feel Violet’s eyes scanning her face. “You sure you’re okay?”

Emily nodded, pursing her lips into a hard line across her face. She glanced around for Roger before she answered. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Then stop being so weird!” Violet slung her arm across Emily’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “It’s nearly Christmas — and the Ball!”

She had to stop herself from cringing at the word. For a moment, she had let herself forget about the Yule Ball… and the fact that she no longer had a date. And meanwhile, Roger had Fleur Delacour, a Champion and beautiful, to boot.

“Em?”

Violet’s voice snapped her from her stupor, and she nudged towards the door as the students entered the classroom.

Inside, Flitwick was dressed in fine sapphire robes with a garland wrapped loosely around his neck and a tall black hat perched atop his head. The desks were all pushed tight against the wall, leaving the centre of the classroom in empty space.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said and walked to the side of the room, “file in now. Boys to the left, girls to the right, please.”

“What’s the emergency, Professor?” asked Allison as she closed the door behind her, and Emily felt her chest tighten upon the realization that even Head Girl didn’t know what this was for.

“As you all know, the Yule Ball will be held in two days’ time. It’s customary for the Champions to participate in a waltz and for the rest of the students to join them partway through.”

“A waltz?” Sarah Fawcett asked, incredulous. “We don’t know how to waltz!”

A wide smile parted Flitwick’s lips. “Indeed, Miss Fawcett. That’s precisely why I’ve brought you all here.”

With a flick of his wand, a phonograph materialised by his side.

“Might I have some volunteers?” Flitwick asked and scanned the room. “Miss Prince and Mister Davies, perhaps?”

Emily felt her heart drop and watched as Roger pushed through the crowd, almost as if it didn’t faze him at all. She moved, though slowly, hesitantly, begrudgingly, to join him.

In retrospect, it shouldn’t have surprised her: they had been a couple, after all, and were both prefects together. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“Mister Davies,” Flitwick started, and the two needed to look down to see him. They stood facing each other but not looking at each other at all. “If you’ll please, take Miss Prince’s hand.” And they did. Emily tried not to reel at the touch of Roger’s skin against her own. “Good, now put your hand on her waist please, and Miss Prince, set yours on Mister Davies’s shoulder.”

They matched position as instructed, and Emily still couldn’t look Roger in the eye despite their proximity.

“Excellent!” Flitwick whipped his wand again, and a record played from the phonograph, its light airy melody filling the classroom. “Now, the standard waltz timing is in three.” He used his wand as a conductor’s guide. “One – two – three… one – two – three…”

Emily stepped in time with Flitwick’s counts, and Roger led her body with his. She hated being so close to him.

She parted her lips in a grin and let her eyes wander around the room, though she couldn’t help but focus on Roger, the slump of his frame, the dull look in his eyes.

“Just fake it,” she growled through her forced smile. She didn’t plan to draw attention to it; the words just erupted from her lips. “I’m not dealing with this right now.”

For a moment, he looked almost forlorn, staring past her. “Should we really have to?”

He had already moved beyond her; she could see it in his face, though that was hardly what bothered her.

It wasn’t that Emily was hung up on Roger. In fact, there was a part of her that was grateful to be rid of him. The distance she had carved between them wasn’t fair, and it was only right for him to try for someone else, someone better, maybe. The separation was freeing, almost. She didn’t have to worry about Roger or how Roger would feel or what Roger would think or how to be polite when admitting to Roger that she hated his every move. There could maybe even be normalcy with the twins again, now that Roger was out of the picture.

But it was hard, too, to acknowledge that she had been dumped. It was embarrassing, a dirty little secret she had kept to herself for the past week. But the deadline for the Ball was quickly approaching, and at this rate, she wouldn’t even be going — and what then?

Emily and Roger looked as intended, spinning together around the classroom, like they were still together, like they would be doing this just two nights from now as they did here. Nobody suspected any change — or if they did they gave no indication. Violet smiled at them, none the wiser about the way Roger’s plans changed. And the way Emily’s plans would still need to, and quick.

“You know I’m sorry,” he finally said, and he spun her in a way that was showy and intimate. Flitwick seemed giddy at the sight. “I’ve told you that.”

“You’ve said a lot of things, Roger.” Her shoulders tensed, but she did her best to maintain her composure.

Flitwick tapped his wand to get the attention of the remaining students as he partnered them off, but Emily was too busy stewing at Roger to notice as the floor filled up around them. She silently begged for Flitwick to show her some mercy.

Violet was partnered with Nathan Heidt who may as well have had two left feet, and she led him through each move with the grace of a practiced ballerina. Though the moves were backwards, their dance was so elegant, no one said a word against it.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” cried Flitwick, and he swayed on his own near the phonograph before he caught glimpse of a fifth year couple. “Hand up, please, Mister Gorman; it should be a wand’s length up from its current position.”

He hummed the counts as the students swayed gracelessly across the classroom floor.

After another agonizing few minutes, Flitwick dismissed them all, gushing politely about how fantastic they would look at the Ball.

“So who are you going to the Ball with?” Roger asked as he dropped her hand.

Emily’s jaw flexed. “Don’t be an arse.”

“I’m being serious, Em.” He set his hand beneath her chin and lifted it so her eyes met his.

She slapped his hand away from her and grabbed her Potions text before turning on her heel. “Shove off, Davies.”

Emily had already long lost Violet by the time she got to the staircase to head to lunch. She could feel the embarrassed heat radiating from her cheeks and tried to shake it away.

At the same time, she felt free, removed from Roger. Her fingertips still stung with her slap, but it was worth it to feel so liberated. She had waited so long, trying to cling to the fantasy that everything was fine, even when she knew it wasn’t. Now she finally had the chance to really think about what she wanted — or maybe who. The heaviness in the pit of her stomach as she headed towards the Great Hall, towards the Gryffindor table where she knew he would be, didn’t help ease her anxieties.

Maybe she had waited too long, and everyone would be taken already. Violet found a date in a tall, handsome Durmstrang boy named Edvard, as Emily had sagely predicted, and Amina and Patty were going with twin Beauxbatons boys. She heard rumours that Lee Jordan had agreed on a ‘just friends’ arrangement with Alicia Spinnet, who had bit the bullet and asked him herself. Emily didn’t know what the twins had planned, though she knew what she hoped, even if she didn’t totally understand why.

Although it was a Friday, it didn’t feel that way — it hadn’t for a while. She couldn’t remember the last time she hung out with the twins after Potions, though she knew it had been over a week since the outburst in class, since her pushing him away, since Roger dropping her on her arse…

Emily was initially fuelled by a nauseating mix of aggravation and embarrassment, which morphed to near-panic the closer she got to the Great Hall.

She had the entire conversation planned and rehearsed in her head, but it wasn’t enough to put her at ease. Not until she finally asked. Not until he said yes.

“How about a truce?” she practised under her breath, the words brushing coolly against the back of her teeth. “No. I'd like a truce..." She sighed before continuing, "so maybe we could go to the Ball together.”

It seemed so easy in theory, with the weight of Roger lifted off her shoulders, but the words were still stiff and heavy and difficult.

Of course, as soon as Emily walked into the Great Hall that afternoon, as soon as she saw Violet waving her over to their house table, she saw him, and the words evaporated from her tongue. He sat next to George, of course, with his younger brother on his other side and Lee not too far off. They were mid-conversation, all jokes and laughter, and she was still a little bitter. She suddenly realized just how long it had been since they had even spoken to each other. George, on the other hand, was cordial enough to pass a whispered ‘hello’ in the corridor but careful not to ruffle feathers with Fred.

Fred’s voice rose suddenly above the chatter of the room. “Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” he said and threatened his brother with a flippant wave of his wand. The prefect in her was tempted to dock points for blatant recklessness, but she pretended not to notice.

As Emily moved around and over towards the Gryffindor table on her way to Ravenclaw’s, she thought he saw her, though she had been trying to move discreetly for now, her hair curtaining her face and her body hunched over her Potions text. She wanted to talk to him, but after everything that had happened she didn’t know how to bring it up. Fred continued to his brother and his friends, “So… you lot got dates to the Ball yet?”

Had he heard?

It sure seemed like he had, with the way he eyed her as she moved, the way he punctuated the joke — if it even was a joke — with a haughty chuckle.

Ron replied, loudly enough, that he hadn’t found a date, and Fred was quick to add, his voice mocking, “Well, you better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones’ll be taken.”

Emily caught his glance with her own and stopped in place. Her whole body went cold as his eyes narrowed on her, her pulse raging between her ears.

“Who’re you going with then?” Ron asked, and Fred turned back to him.

It seemed as though they had been looking at each other for ages, but it was so much briefer than that—a moment in passing. Fred grinned at his brother. “Angelina.”

Emily walked on, her fists clenched tight to her book as she found her seat at the end of the Ravenclaw table next to Violet and made a shallow attempt and effort to focus on her Potions essay. She only got one sentence in before her heavy pressing on the quill tore a hole through her parchment.

“Oi! Angelina!” Angelina Johnson only sat a few feet away with only a handful of people between them, but his voice still echoed through the Great Hall. She turned from her conversation with Alicia Spinnet to look back expectantly at Fred as he asked, “Want to come to the Ball with me?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Angelina smile as she agreed, and Emily dug her face back into her parchment, clenching her jaw so tight that her teeth ached.

It shouldn’t have bothered her so much, really. What did she care that Fred had a date, and now she didn’t? What did she care that it was Angelina? What did she care that it almost seemed deliberate, him asking in front of her like that?

She  _didn’t_  care. Obviously she didn’t. She’d find somebody else. She didn’t need him anyhow…

“What a right git, making a scene like that,” Violet grumbled as she leaned her elbow on the table. She had been reading her Muggle Studies textbook, which was laid out in front of her, open to a chapter on various muggle currencies and commerce. She turned to Emily and beamed. “But, honestly, who cares who he’s going with, Em? You’ve got Roger!”

Emily brushed her fingers along the feathers of her quill, her lips pursed.

Oblivious, Violet continued, “Do you know what you’ll be wearing yet? I know Amina and Patty need to go to Hogsmeade on Saturday to get shoes—I mean, Amina’s mum got her shoes already, but they’re truly dreadful, so either way we’re going, and —”

“Stop,” Emily said without looking back at her. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air between them. “Just stop.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Emily could see how taken aback Violet was. “What’s wrong?”

Emily just shook her head as she turned back to face Violet, and over her shoulder she could see him tripping over himself to talk to Fleur Delacour.

Violet turned to match her gaze and saw him too, letting out a loud gasp at the sight. Emily hushed her and pulled her back in towards the table.

“Are you just going to let him treat you that way?” Violet demanded, her eyes focused on Emily’s face, its pallor unsettling.

“It hardly matters now,” Emily grumbled and shoved her parchment back into the textbook. She tried not to think about it, but it was too much, and she could feel the frustration welling up in her eyes. “He dumped me.”

The news didn’t register at first, and Violet let out a set of rapid blinks in response until it all clicked.

She hissed, “He  _dumped_  you? Who does he think he is?”

She jumped up as if to go confront him, but Emily yanked her down.

“He thinks he’s a champion’s date,” she said through clenched teeth, and Violet fell back into her seat, stunned.

“Oh, Emmy…” Violet said and laid her head on Emily’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Emily paused. She thought about everybody else all paired up — Violet with Edvard, Lee with Alicia, Roger with Fleur, Fred with Angelina… “But don’t be mad that I’m not going to the Ball either.”

“Absolutely not,” said Violet, and there was such determination in her voice that Emily turned to look at her. “That’s like letting him win.”

Emily sighed and crossed her arms against her chest as she slunk down further in her seat. “It’s not a competition, Vi.”

“Like hell it’s not!”

“It’s not, really” Emily insisted.

“I won’t let him ruin this for you.”

Emily pursed her lips into a hard line across her face and took a sharp inhale through her nose before answering. “It’s not ruining anything. I just…” Her voice faltered, cracked. "I just don’t feel to go anymore.”

“You deserve to go and have fun too, Em. Not just Roger.” Violet leaned her head against Emily’s shoulder. “You  _should_  go.”

Emily conceded, “I’ll think about it.”

Violet’s lips turned to a smile. “That’s all I ask.” She stood up and gave Emily one last hug from behind before running off to make Hogsmeade plans with Amina and Patty.

Over the course of lunch, the Great Hall cleared out, and Emily wound up basically alone. She sat stewing, tapping her fingers against the cover of Violet’s Potions book and trying not to think about her shite luck.

Suddenly, a figure appeared beside her.

“If anyone asks, I’m trying to convince you to let me borrow Baron to send a letter,” George whispered, plopping himself down to fill the empty space next to her. He noticed her sulk and asked offhandedly, “Why so glum, chum?”

Emily let a scoff pass through her lips. She didn’t even turn to look at him. “As if you don’t know.”

He leaned closer to her, and she could just barely make out his outline in her periphery.

“Have I missed something then?” He paused. “You know, there are two of me here, so chances are you maybe told the other one…”

“You know damn well I haven’t told Fred anything.” Her voice had the low rumble of a lion’s growl, angry and defensive.

With a shrug, George admitted defeat. “Well then I’ve got nothing.”

Emily finally turned to look at him, saw the honesty in his expression, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You can tell me what’s up,” George said as he set a hand on her back. “Won’t even tell a single soul.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Emily sucked in a deep breath, held it in her lungs, then released it, before she spoke. “Roger dumped me.”

George’s face softened. “Why?”

“Because apparently French girls are more  _exotique_  or whatever,” she grumbled, and dropped her head into her hands.

“More exotic than our very own Hogwarts royalty?” he joked and pulled her into a hug. “What a dumb git.”

In spite of herself, Emily smiled. “I just… with this stupid Ball coming up…”

“You still going?”

“Why should I bother?” She let her head fall against the table with a frustrated moan.

“Because,” George said, nudging her at the shoulder; once she looked up at him, he continued, “I haven’t got a date either, and I’d at least enjoy going with a friend.”

“You serious? You’re not going with anyone?”

George smirked. “If I had a date, would I ask someone else too? That’s a  _Davies_  move; total shite.”

She chuckled, despite herself, and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thanks, George.”

“Consider it a personal favour.” He shifted in his seat. “Don’t think I could go a whole night with Fred and Angelina together without some company.”

At the mention of Fred, Emily felt her heart sink into her stomach.

“Oh, right.” She took a strand of hair between her fingers absentmindedly and pulled at the dead ends. “Can’t much blame you for that.”

“Y’know what?”

Emily turned back to face him again. “Yeah?”

“I’m actually pretty excited for the Ball now.” He grinned, and she tried to match him. “Thanks, Em.”

And she was glad that at least one of them felt better…

>>> 

Emily awoke on Christmas morning to a small stack of neatly wrapped gifts at the foot of her bed. There was a small one sitting on her trunk — from her mother, she could tell. It was wrapped in the same red and green striped paper that her mother had used for the last four years. Perched atop was a rectangle wrapped in the latest issue of the  _Daily Prophet_  with an elegant silver ribbon.

“That one’s from me,” Violet said, plopping herself down on Emily’s bed. She tossed her the present.

Emily was careful to save the paper, setting it aside to read later, and pulled the gift’s contents from its box. It was a deep indigo jumper, the same style as the one she often borrowed.

“I figured you liked it so much I should get you your own,” said Violet, beaming proudly.

Emily playfully raised her brow. “So I don’t have to borrow yours anymore?”

“Well, if that’s an unintended consequence, then so be it.” The corners of Violet’s mouth upturned into a smirk.

“I love it,” she said and pulled Violet into a hug. “Thanks.”

“Happy Christmas, Em.”

Emily jumped out of bed and moved her mum’s present to the floor as she dug through her trunk. She pulled out a small box topped with a bow and handed it to Violet. “Happy Christmas, Vi.”

Violet was a voracious gift receiver, and she tore the paper to shreds, dumping the box’s contents into her lap in a heap of cardboard and tissue paper. Buried beneath it all was a beautiful golden fountain pen.

“It’s what muggles write with — well, fancy muggles, at least,” Emily explained after seeing Violet’s look of confusion. “It’s like a quill but without an inkwell.”

“It’s incredible.” Violet was starstruck, holding the pen in the palm of her hand with the gingerest care.

Emily smiled. “Glad you like it.”

“You’ve one more, you know,” Violet said, pointing to the red-and-green-wrapped gift on the floor. “From your mum, if I had to guess.”

Inside the familiar wrapping was a leather-bound journal pressed with a ‘P’. She opened it, and there was a note from her mother on the first page.

> _Dearest Emily,_
> 
> _Joyeux Noël!_
> 
> _Let this journal house your every thought, fear, and emotion. In this turbulent time, it is important to have record of the life you have lived, for yourself and for posterity._
> 
> _I love you, ma chère._
> 
> _Stay safe._
> 
> _— Maman_

_In this turbulent time… Stay safe._  Her mother’s note seemed ominous in a way that left her unsettled. She remembered the letters to Severus:  _Secrets. Julian. Debt. Dark. Danger. Magic. Home. Severus, I am so terribly afraid._

She thrust the journal underneath her pillow, shaking the thought from her mind, at least for now. She would write to her later. Maybe she’d even get some answers.

But for now, it was time for the Christmas Day breakfast feast.

In the Great Hall, she was nearly rushed by George, who seemed much less inconspicuous about talking to her this time. “Oi, Em! Happy Christmas!”

In her arm, she had gifts for Fred and George, which she had bought and saved from over the summer. They were small — just trick trinkets that she hoped they’d appreciate.

George handed Emily a lumpy package, wrapped in brown polka-dot paper. “It’s from Mum, to go with what you made last year, I guess.”

Emily fondly remembered the purple-coloured hat Mrs. Weasley had knit her for a gift the Christmas previous.

“These are for you… and Fred.” She swapped packages with him, feeling something else beneath his as she took it in her hand. George agreed to give Fred his so that she wouldn’t have to.

“Got you a little something as well,” he said. “Well, ‘s’from Fred too, I suppose.”

The package beneath was an unwrapped tin of treacle fudge adorned with a cheeky note:  _This is_ definitely _not poisoned. – F &G_.

“Thanks, George. I’m sure somewhere there’s a silly ‘it’s sweet, like you’ joke to go along with it.”

George let out a light chuckle. “Of course.”

Emily tried not to glance over at Fred, who sat at the Gryffindor table with Angelina Johnson. But, of course, she did anyway, and she saw them side-by-side. They were talking, though she wasn’t sure about what.

“And, hey, I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

She turned back to George who was beaming, with his and Fred’s gifts tucked neatly under his arm. “Eight o’clock sharp.”

Once she sat down for breakfast next to Violet and Amina, Emily opened the gift from Mrs. Weasley, though she had a suspicion of what it was. When she tore open the paper, something fell from between the folds of fabric, and as it hit against the table top, Emily let out a surprised gasp.

Amina rushed to pick the thing up, setting it gingerly against her palm and holding it out to Emily.

It was a locket, adorned with a silvery fleur-de-lis on its front, hanging from a long chain.

“Merlin’s beard, Em, it’s lovely.” Amina looked from the locket to Emily and back.

Violet’s response was more pragmatic: “Who’s it from?”

Mrs. Weasley was a lovely knitter, but fine jewellery wasn’t normally her style. Still, Emily was immensely grateful, and she conceded, “I don’t know exactly.”

“Well you should wear it,” Amina decided, jumping up and putting the locket around Emily’s neck. “No use letting it go to waste, yeah?”

Emily held the locket’s pendant in her hand, running her fingers against the engraved design. “Yeah…”

Before breakfast was over, she had one more thing to do once Angelina was gone…

“Hey.” Emily took hesitant steps toward Fred and tapped his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For what?” he asked with a face full of porridge. He wore a doe-eyed expression, like she had surprised him with the sentiment.

“For the fudge.” She wanted to ask about the locket but decided against it.

“Oh.” He looked down at his bowl, spinning the spoon around its rim. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

She stood awkwardly over him, an uncomfortable tension interrupting what little conversation they had. The fabric of her new jumper scratched against her, the metal of the locket burning against her skin. “There’s something for you — just something little — with George.”

“Okay.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t move to get up. He hardly seemed to notice what she had said at all.

Emily took a deep breath and went to leave. Over her shoulder, she looked back at Fred and said, her voice little more than a dejected whisper, “Happy Christmas.”


	17. Before It Gets Messy

“I don’t think I can go, Vi,” Emily said, flattening a wrinkle on the front of her gown as she leaned against the post of her bed in the girls’ dorm.

“Like hell you can’t,” she replied, not even looking up from her mirror as she applied a thin layer of blue eyeshadow in the same shade as her dress. “You wait until after I doll you all up to say that? I’ll drag you by the hair if I have to.”

Violet’s extensive collection of hair styling potions made getting ready for the Yule Ball much less stressful than Emily anticipated, though the thought of going still turned her stomach. And Violet all but mastered using them to tame Emily’s curls into a twisted updo with only a few stray locks undone at the front. Simple and elegant, she said.

Playing with one loose piece of hair that fell from its hold, Emily said, “It’ll make me feel better to look nice while I sulk.”

Violet turned to her, the fabric of her gown swinging from the inertia. Her hair was half straight and half elegantly curled, and only one eye was fully made up. “I’m cutting you off. No more sulking.”

“But —”

“He’s not worth all that energy, Em.”

She groaned, falling back against her bed and kicking her heels off her feet. She hated that she couldn’t let herself just enjoy the night.

But Violet was right; she had done more than enough whining and sulking and carrying on as of late.

“Edvard’s going to meet us outside the Great Hall,” Violet said, swiftly changing the subject as she ran a styling potion through the rest of her blond hair. She finished her makeup and forced Emily’s heels back onto her feet before reminding her, “If not for you, at least go for George.”

Emily pursed her lips, careful not to smear the glistening gloss Violet adorned them with, and let out a sigh. “All right.”

“That’s the spirit!” Violet took her by the arm as they walked down the stairs together toward the ball. “Well, not exactly the spirit, but close enough.”

When Emily and Violet arrived, the Entrance Hall was teeming with people, students from all three schools as well as professors and Hogwarts staff. A charming dark-haired boy in formal Durmstrang robes took Violet’s hand and laid a kiss upon it, and Violet introduced Emily to her date, Edvard. He was bulky, like Krum and the other Durmstrang boys, but there was a finesse to him, a sort of grace that he exuded as he wrapped Violet’s arm in his. The sheer blue fabric of her sleeve glimmered under the candlelit hall beneath his gentle grip. They did look pretty cute together, Emily had to admit.

The deep Ravenclaw blue of Violet’s dress was a stark contrast against Edvard’s crisp, red robes, though they looked so complementary next to each other as they entered the Great Hall. Violet shot a pearly smile over her shoulder and made an unspoken promise to save Emily a seat.

Left behind at the entrance, Emily glanced around for George. Her efforts were admittedly half-hearted, too distracted about trying to avoid everyone else.

“Hey, Em,” George said, as he tapped her shoulder. “You look nice.”

Her dark grey dress was adorned with sequins in the shape of small stars — her mother called it _dazzling_ when she first pulled it from the rack — but Emily was now so conscious of how much light each bead reflected; surely it was blinding, though nobody seemed much bothered.

“You too,” she said, looking at him in his copper-coloured vest and fancy black dress robes. “Very dashing.”

Over George’s shoulder, she saw him, sporting an identical outfit and standing near the doorway with Angelina on his arm. She felt suffocated beneath the tight fabric of her dress stretched across her abdomen, like it was restricting every breath she tried to take.

She was hesitant to even acknowledge his presence, to risk opening up their argument’s festering wound. But she needed to say _something_.

“Hi, Fred.”

He didn’t even look at her, and shot back an equally offhand, “Hi.”

He draped an arm over Angelina’s bare shoulder, and the fabric of her purple dress caught a shimmer of light. The material stretched loose over her skin, hanging at the edge of each curve and accentuating her slender figure. Emily didn’t want to admit how gorgeous she looked.

Turning back to George, she faked a smile and tried to contort her features into something remotely pleasant. She owed him at least that much.

“You ready?” he asked and reached a hand out to her. She took it with a nod, and they joined the rest of the school for the ball.

The Great Hall was always decorated for holiday, but this was different, spectacular. For the Yule Ball, it was done up like a wintery wonderland, complete with fake snow and lengthy garlands of ivy and mistletoe spread from end to end. The walls were tinted with a sparkling blueish-silver colour and garnished with large evergreen trees along each side. The whole room was an unrecognizable glacial dream, coated in ice blue and silver. It nearly took Emily’s breath away, the grandeur of it all.

By the time the pair got inside, Violet and Edvard already claimed a table near the dance floor. The other seats were taken up by Lee and Alicia Spinnet and Fred and Angelina. George and Emily laid claim to the last two seats at the table. Once all of the other students were inside, the Champions were introduced.

“Don’t look now,” Violet whispered to her as the Champions trotted by with their dates in tow.

Emily turned in the direction to see what she was referring to — though she should have known that Violet had good reason for telling her to not — and caught glimpse of Roger, clung tight to Fleur’s arm. He didn’t catch her looking; he seemed not to have even noticed anyone else around, he was so enraptured in his date’s presence as Fleur paraded him around like a prized show pony. Meanwhile, she tried not to collapse upon herself.

“I told you not to look,” came Violet’s hiss in her ear.

Emily’s throat tightened for a brief moment before she shrugged. “Well, that’s what I get, yeah?”

A chorus of violins began to play, initiating the Champion’s waltz, and before long, everyone joined them on the dance floor. Edvard swept Violet off her feet with the grace of a danseur, performing dips and lifts as if it were a professional production. Fred and Angelina were long-gone as well.

“C’mon,” George said, and he pulled Emily out to waltz as well. He drew an arm around her waist and took her hand in his other, and she flinched slightly at the intimacy of the dance. “Don’t make it weird, though.”

“Course not.” She set her hand in position atop his shoulder, and they joined the waltz in motion, in synch with the spins and twirls of the other pairs.

She found herself smiling — really smiling — and laughing for the first time in what felt like ages as she danced along with George, who was surprisingly graceful a dancer, though he normally walked like a baby giraffe. And when the dance was over, the room filled back up with the chatter of conversation that occurred throughout the Yule Ball feast. Lee and the twins engaged in lively debate about the recipe for their newest trick candies for their mail-order, and Alicia and Angelina lamented the loss of Quidditch for the term. Edvard was making a concerted effort to teach Violet some polite Swedish, repeating the words for her in his fluid accent and cringing when she butchered them in hers. Still, Violet was nothing if not persistent. Emily would have to take the mickey out of her later for turning the Yule Ball into class time.

Despite her inner-protests, Emily was drawn in by the constant gravitational pull of Roger and Fleur. They sat paired at the Champions table, looking perfectly matched together. She could only see the back of Fleur’s head, really, but the way Roger was looking at her, gazing at her, set Emily aflame. He hadn’t ever looked at her that way.

She pushed around the roasted red potatoes on her plate. Though her stomach grumbled and ached, she couldn’t bring herself to eat much — just enough to keep her hunger at bay.

There was a gentle tap on her arm, and George was leaning over top her. “You okay there, Em? You seem… off.”

She didn’t answer him but shrunk further down in her seat, trying not to be too transparent in her sulking.

“Hey, c’mere,” George started again as he pulled Emily from her chair, wrapping his hand around her wrist. As they walked away from their table, McGonagall stood up, ready to scold them for being out of their seats, but George explained, “Just getting something to drink, Professor.”

He brought them past the punch bowl and pointed Emily to the table directly behind the champions. She went to take a seat, but it was apparently the wrong one, and George ushered her to the one left of it. He pointed ahead, and she followed his finger.

From the new angle, everything looked… different.

There Roger sat, his eyes wide, staring at Fleur Delacour. He moved to take a sip of punch but missed his mouth, the pinkish liquid dribbling down his chin.

“I just hate it here!” Fleur’s French-accented voice was a dramatic whine that grated against Emily’s ears. “It would have been much better back in France. This _musique_ is horrible!”

Fleur continued her rant, and Roger just kept staring at her, eyes unblinking. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe his face clean. Just stared at her, nodding once or twice at whatever complaint she added to her list.

Emily couldn’t help but giggle under her breath, and George hushed her as best he could. But soon they were both laughing as they snuck back over to refill their punch.

“Can you believe him? He was _literally_ drooling over her.”

“We tried to tell you he’s a prat, Em,” George said. “Be grateful you got out while you could.”

If she was honest, she was grateful to be rid of him. Even without seeing him as such a mess, she felt relieved to not be tied to him anymore.

But there was still some lingering regret: first and foremost that she had spent so much time grieving over their relationship that she missed out on everything else, and secondly that she let him get under her skin so much, even if he wasn’t the only thing getting under her skin anymore.

When they sat back down, Emily tried not to pay much mind to Fred or to notice Angelina’s flirtatious giggle or to imagine that Fred might look at Angelina the same way Roger looked at Fleur.

>>>

Before long, the food was gone, and the band was out — the Weird Sisters, her favourite of the wizarding bands Violet introduced her to in first year. Everyone quickly returned to the dance floor, which dimmed itself to match the event’s new vibe. Emily sat back at the table and watched from afar, having only moved from her chair once to fill her glass with punch. The music was playing fast, but everyone seemed to be moving in slow-motion in front of her.

She had tried to stop moping, but seeing Roger so happy with Fleur, Fred so happy with Angelina, even Violet with Edvard, made it difficult to accept her situation with any semblance of grace.

“Would you mind if I danced?” George asked, turning to her finally. She’d hardly realized that he stayed back with her. Some great date she was turning out to be…

She jumped up and shook her head in response, throwing in a quick apology about how she wasn’t being much of a date anyhow, but he held up his hand before he rephrased the request. “I mean… would you mind if I asked Angelina to dance?”

His new question caught Emily so off-guard that she could only parrot back, “Angelina?”

She glanced over at Fred and Angelina on the dance floor and, for a moment, imagined that Fred was George instead. The thought in itself was soothing, she admitted, and they were rather cute together. It was surprising she never thought of them paired before.

“No; go ahead.”

He moved toward the dance floor but stopped himself after a step. She had never seen him so… nervous. “D’you think _she’d_ mind?” he asked her.

“I’m sure not,” Emily replied and pushed him up in Angelina’s direction. She’d be damned if she was going to let him sit here all night, knowing that he wanted to be having fun despite her. Who should stop him from having a good night?

“You think Fred would mind?”

She nearly snarled at the mention of his name. “He doesn’t get a say in whether or not _Angelina_ wants to dance with you.”

George still looked hesitant as he adjusted his bowtie around his neck and flattened the collar of his shirt. He stood at the edge of the dance floor where their table was and spun back around to Emily. “But —”

“Just do it,” she said, shooting him a half-smile. It was meant to be encouraging, but she couldn’t quite tell whether it was. “If it all goes wrong, which it _won’t_ , I’ll be right here waiting.” She patted the chair next to her to punctuate the statement.

Emily watched him take a deep breath before he walked over to them, and then he stood at Angelina’s side, looking ever-so-charming as he reached out a hand to her. She beamed, a beautiful white smile that rounded her cheeks, a light flush rising in her dark skin as she dropped Fred’s hand with an apologetic glance and took George’s. He led her into the centre of the dance floor as the music slowed. From her seat, Emily took another sip of her punch and tried not to think about the dent of her arse in the chair.

Fred stormed off the dance floor in a huff, stopping when his eyes met Emily’s. His body stiffened at the sight of her, but he still threw himself down into the chair across from hers.

“So, you and George, yeah?” he asked, though it hardly sounded like a question. Then he spat, “What happened to _Davies_?”

Emily flinched on reflex.

“What do you think?” she replied, her voice a growl, and nodded her head towards Roger next to George and Angelina on the dance floor with Fleur’s head resting on his shoulder, his hand on the bare small of her back, and their bodies so close it made Emily uncomfortable to look any longer.

“Oh… shit.” He shifted awkwardly in his seat and raked his fingers through his long hair.

“It doesn’t matter,” she huffed, tightly crossing her arms against her chest and slinking herself deeper in her seat.

There was an awkward pause that lingered with the threat of silence, despite the blaring music.

“When?” Fred asked after a while, his features softening under the glow of the candles in the Great Hall.

Emily sighed and pushed her hair off her face, though she wished she could hide behind it. “Last week.”

He thought on her answer for a moment, and his jaw tensed. “Why?”

Her fingers grew cold as her anger and sadness and frustration all boiled up inside of her, and she drew in a sharp breath. “If you can’t figure it out on your own, then maybe you ought to go ask him yourself.”

“Well, he’s a dumb git, and it’s his loss,” he answered with a shrug.

Emily forced a scoff up her throat. “Oh, yeah, he’s clearly the loser here. Meanwhile, I’m here alone, miserable —”

“You don’t have to be miserable, you know.” He leaned his body back against the table, stretching his legs out in front of him and laying claim to the space next to her.

“And you don’t have to be a prat, but it hasn’t much stopped you.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” he replied, sarcasm coating every word. A large group of assorted students from the three schools walked between them, but Fred seemed to not even notice, his eyes still focused on her.

“I don’t need your pity, Fred.” Her voice erupted as a bark from the back of her throat. She let out a huff and turned her body away from him. “Just go. Have a good time. Don’t let me spoil it for you too.”

He scooted over to face her again and let a small smile coat his lips. “Did you forget that your date stole mine?”

“So that’s why you’re talking to me again all of a sudden — all your other options are taken.”

A muscle in Fred’s jaw twitched before he answered, “No. I’m talking to you ‘cause it’s stupid not to, and ‘cause it’s stupid to waste the night not having fun, and ‘cause it’s stupid to mope about because some git thinks he’s too good for you when he never deserved you in the first place.” He let out a frustrated exhale when he finished.

“Is that all?”

At the table next to them, a couple — a girl from Beauxbatons and a boy from Durmstrang — were curled up together, their bodies so close it was almost impossible to distinguish whose parts were whose. The sounds of their smacking lips infiltrated the conversation.

Fred threw up his hands. “And you’re too clever to be that bloody stupid!”

His face was merely inches from hers, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks. He was flush, pink from his ears across his nose, the colour masking his freckles. She bit her lip and let out an empty sigh. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s stupid to keep fighting too.”

“I’m sorry,” he said and leaned back, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Y’know, for being a wanker.”

Emily began to smile, though she tried to stop herself by biting down on her bottom lip. “You really are.”

“That means I’m forgiven then, yeah?” he asked and waited for her to nod. Then he stood up, grinning, and held his hand out to her. “Come dance.”

“What?” Emily glanced at his hand from beneath raised brows, like it was a foreign entity.

“Dance. You and me,” he replied. “It _is_ a party, after all.”

She took one last slug of punch before she stood up and adjusted the sheer straps of her dress. “Fine. But only because I feel bad that George stole away Angelina.”

“For now,” he said, walking out to the dance floor alongside her, “I’ll take it.”

The Weird Sisters played loud and fast, lyrics screamed over the noise. There were bodies upon bodies on the dance floor, no extra space for moving elbows, and Emily found herself very close to Fred. Her skin was slick with sweat; his was too. And as the dance floor thumped with the loud bass of the music, as the students dancing jumped along with each beat, she tried not to stare at Fred, whose long hair was sticking to his forehead, who wore the biggest smile, who nearly lost his now-untied bow tie amongst the crowds of people.

Emily only knew maybe one or two Weird Sisters songs, and even those she didn’t know too well. But out on the dance floor, with Fred, she felt the heavy weight lift from her shoulders, felt her inhibitions crash to the floor in a mess of her shattered dignity. And she began to sing — more like scream, thanks to volume and lack of discernible pitch — along with the band, her voice screeching just barely over the cheering of the entire student body. She remembered most of the words, kind of, and those she didn’t remember she stumbled through. The smile on her face morphed into a half-grimace half-chuckle Frankenstein combination with each messed up lyric.

“You don’t know the words?” Fred said, more a statement than a question, his voice raised over the roar of the crowd. His eyes were focused on her.

“Not really,” she admitted as she turned pink and let loose a bout of laughter that quickly spread, infecting Fred as well until they were both red in the face.

When their eyes met again, the laughter subsided, leaving a sort of comfortable silence in its wake. She had missed this.

The faster sounds wound down, and the pace slowed for the next song. Students cleared off the dance floor with platonic dance partners.

Emily was tempted to stay on the dance floor, but there was no way she planned to force Fred to shuffle awkwardly alongside her in an uncomfortable slow dance. Even if she was having a good time. Even if this song was her favourite. Even if she desperately wanted to.

“That was fun,” she said with a deep breath as she moved to go sit back down at their table.

“Wait.”

She turned to him, and he pulled her back, gently. His hand held hers, sweaty though it was.

“One more?” A smile crept across his face, undeniably charming as it passed from his lips to hers. And when she nodded, he pulled her closer to him, their bodies only inches apart. Their fingers intertwined, and she reached up to set her hand on his shoulder as his wrapped around the small of her back. His touch was electric even through the fabric of her dress, igniting a fire within her. Even through his shirt, Emily could feel the hardness of the muscles in his back, and she let her fingers run along them absentmindedly. There they were together — so close, so comfortable. Had it always been this way? Had she just never noticed?

The music played on, and they danced, the world disappearing around them, drowned out by Fred’s breathing and her pounding heartbeat. They spun together, and in her periphery Emily caught Violet’s wide-eyed stares and George’s bright smile — all shot in their direction. As the song slowed to a stop, which permitted the band to take a much-needed break, she and Fred stood facing each other, still a bit dizzy from all of the spinning.

Her pulse was deafening in her head, her fingertips numbing as she realized that Fred had still not dropped her hand.

Before she knew it, his lips were on hers. The hand not intertwined with hers was set wrapped against her hair. Emily melted into him as her own arm snaked around his shoulder and her knees struggled to hold up the weight of her body. He was bending down to reach her far more than could be comfortable, she was sure. But somehow it was comfortable.

So close, so comfortable.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

She yanked herself away and took a step or two backwards, her lips pursed, her eyes focused on him from beneath furrowed brows.

“Em,” Fred began, looking suddenly hurt, his face newly paled. He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders tensing with the motion. “Wait…”

Her paranoia kicked in as she took another step toward the door, and it felt like the entire Great Hall was staring at her. She bit at the inside of her cheek until she could taste copper, hoping that it might serve as a distraction. All she wanted was to say something, anything, but her mouth was dry and scratchy like sandpaper, and she couldn’t force the words out.

He repeated her name, and the sound echoed in her ears.

It chased her out of the Great Hall and away from Fred.

The band resumed playing, the students continued dancing, and the music sped back up to a lively pace. Emily slipped out into the Entrance Hall and leaned against the brick just past the doorway, sliding down until she sat on the floor. Her head fell heavy into her hands as she fought against panic and tears.

Fred sprinted after her, stumbling out of the Great Hall shortly thereafter and running so quickly that he nearly passed her.

“Em, please.” He seemed almost out-of-breath, though she knew it wasn’t solely from the running.

Emily shook her head, still hiding it behind her hands. 

“ _Please_.”

Finally, she let her eyes meet his though they were glossed over with threatening tears. “Fred…”

“I’m sorry.” He slid down against the wall next to her.

“No,” she said too quietly for him to hear.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “Let’s just forget about it.” He was avoiding her face.

“No,” she repeated, louder this time. She looked at him with glossy, pleading eyes and hoped she looked less manic than she felt. “Can we talk about it?”

“I’d really, _really_ rather not, but —”

“ _Please_.”

He stood up first and then offered his hand to help her up. She struggled for a moment in her heels, held up by the strength in his arms. They started walking towards the Hogwarts gardens.

It was colder outside than either of them expected. The thick heat of the Great Hall was deceiving in the face of the frozen flurry of snow that fell, and Emily shuddered against its chill.

They were quiet at first. She was too afraid to say anything, and she could imagine that he felt the same way. Every so often, she would glance over at him and catch him looking back at her, but neither of them said a word.

“So…” he started, breaking the awkward silence with a single word traveling on his icy exhale. His feet shuffled against the ground as he walked. “You okay?”

Emily took a deep breath, the air billowing out in front of her like a cloud, and punctuated with a nod. “Yeah; and you?”

“Yeah.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. There was a loose rock on the path in front of them that he kicked out of the way as he continued in a haphazard ramble. “I shouldn’t’ve —”

“Stop,” Emily said, more sternly than she anticipated, and she moved to stand in front of him, blocking his path. She looked him in the eyes, struck with surprise by just how much taller than her he was. “If you really do regret it, that’s one thing, but if you don’t…” She let her sentence falter there.

“If I don’t…” he repeated as his eyes scanned her expression. His face was specked with patchwork freckles and fallen snowflakes that glazed his skin with their moisture.

She challenged him, standing up straighter to get closer to his face. “Do you?”

“I never said I did,” he replied with a coy half-smile.

“Well, then if you don’t —” He cut her off.

“What, I should do it again?”

Her response was a quirked brow coupled with a smirk. She jumped to tiptoes and pecked her lips to his, so quick that if he had blinked he’d have nearly missed it.

When she pulled away, covering her blushing face with her hands, he chuckled and asked, “Any regrets?”

Emily ran her teeth over her lips, but before she could respond, they were in a full embrace. He ran his fingers through her hair, his other arm wrapped around her waist. She could taste him as he kissed her. His lips were soft and had the gentle give of a peach against her own. Goose flesh formed on her skin from the brisk winter wind and Fred’s touch, and she could feel his hair, damp and cool, against her skin.

Once they both separated, she looked at him, long and hard and straight in the eyes. At first it was gentle, her soft green-grey eyes meeting his brown eyes in examination, but it soon became harsher, almost glaring, and she quickly shook her head.

“What are we doing, Fred?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She shivered, feeling colder than before, the winter air chilling her body to its core.

“It’s called snogging, Em,” he said, matter-of-factly, the way she would have if she had been the one to say it, and he ran his hand through his hair again. The snow slicked it back against his forehead. “If you’re struggling with the concept, I could show you how it’s done.”

“What are we doing?” she asked again, but the emphasis was different this time. She looked at him with pleading doe-eyes, rimmed with threatening tears. “What is this?”

She wrapped her arms around herself, desperate for warmth, running her hands along the goose flesh of her skin. Her breath clouded in front of her, spreading into the empty space between them.

“Whatever you want it to be, I dunno.”

Emily let out a sigh, her shoulders falling with her breath. “Me neither.”

As if struck by whiplash, Fred rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at her, examined her, before he moved closer and rubbed her arms to increase the warmth to her body. “You… want to go back inside?”

She bit the inside of her lip and tried to take a deep breath, but the sound quivered between her lips. “I think so.”

He held the door open for her, and as she passed inside, he said, “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything. I’m just not sure what I’m doing.” She paused and turned again to look at him. “You’re my best mate.”

There was a faint glimmer in his eye. “I’m telling George.”

“You know what I mean,” she said, and she was relieved that some of the pressure was gone. He was him again. She was her. And they were them. Just as it was… sort of.

As they moved back through the gardens, following their footprints in the snow the way they came, they saw a couple sitting practically on top of one another on a bench among the roses. A head of platinum blonde hair sat perched above a toned male body. The boy’s arms were wrapped tightly around the blonde girl’s waist, his hands gripping desperately at the fabric of her silver satin gown. Painted fingertips ruffled through his tousled dark brown hair.

“Is that…?” Fred started, squinting at the pair, and Emily realized it, too: it was Roger and Fleur.

“There must be something in the air tonight,” Emily said, shrugging off the sight with a laugh. It was the first time she could say she truly wasn’t bothered by the two of them together. She wrapped her arm with Fred’s, their fingers intertwined as they continued toward the Entrance Hall.

“Mister Weasley.” From behind them a low, drawling voice growled his name, and on instinct Emily dropped Fred’s hand. It didn’t take much to discern the voice’s owner; the chill of air behind them was clue enough. “And Miss Prince.”

“Yes, Professor?” Emily finally looked up at Severus, though she wished she hadn’t as she almost collapsed under the weight of his glare.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” His eyes bore straight through her.

“We stepped out to get some air, sir,” she said, and she could hear her voice tremble slightly, “and we were just returning now.”

There was a sort of snarl in the way that Severus responded, the way his lip upturned in a mock-smile as he looked between the two of them. Each word was drenched in sarcasm as he spoke, “Well, then. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

As Severus and his cape swooshed back down the hallway, Fred turned to Emily. “He’s probably just bitter because nobody in their right mind would ever ask him to the Ball.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t wander into the gardens,” Emily said with a chuckle, thinking back on Roger and Fleur, among the other snogging couples, “else that’ll really set him off.”

The Ball was nearly over when they got back, though the music was still going and a handful of students were still dancing. Though she didn’t know for sure what time it was, it had to be nearly midnight.

“You know,” he said as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, “if I could tell you how I wanted this night to go, it’d be this.” He set his lips against her forehead and paused, thinking. “Well, maybe not exactly this, but pretty damn close.”

Emily smiled and leaned into him. “How do you ever plan to explain this to Angelina?”

“I don’t know that she’ll much mind,” he said and nodded to the dance floor where George and Angelina were still going strong. As the music slowly hit a crescendo, George spun Angelina around, and she landed gracefully back in his arms.

“I think you might have stolen George’s dream date,” Emily said, admiring them from across the Great Hall.

“Only fair he should get me back then, eh?” He nudged her gently with his elbow.

Emily turned to look at him from beneath a furrowed brow. “Then why didn’t you just ask me, you numpty?”

He leaned nonchalantly against the stone wall. “Far as I knew you still had Davies.”

“Oh.” She was pensive for a moment before she started again, “You know, I wanted to asked you, and I was going to, but then you asked Angelina, and…”

Fred stepped in front of her and set his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her bare goose fleshed skin with his fingertips. “And now we’re here, so what’s it matter anyhow?”

He pulled her into a hug, and she fell into him, burrowed into his chest and his embrace. They stood that way for what felt like forever, wrapped up in each other just outside the Great Hall, just close enough to still hear the echo of music.

Emily breathed him in one last time before pulling away. “Should we go back?”

Fred shrugged. “Guess there’s still enough time to spike the punch with firewhiskey.”

“As a prefect, you know I can’t sanction that.” She raised a brow at him and tried to stop her smile before it spread across her face.

“You can’t sanction it _officially_ ,” he corrected with a wink.

Emily grinned. “And _unofficially_ , if I found out you had firewhiskey and were holding out on me right now…”

Fred faked an exaggerated gasp. “But, Princey, you’re a _prefect_! That kind of behaviour is most unbecoming.”

“On a night like tonight?” She took his hand in hers, wrapped their fingers together. Her eyes glimmered with mischievous promise as she smirked. “All bets are off.”

>>>

Emily woke up with her head on Fred’s chest and felt herself rising and falling with each breath he took. He was still in his dress shirt, though it was unbuttoned, and she was wrapped in the fabric of her gown.

She didn’t know what time it was, though it had to be late. The ball ended at midnight, after all.

They were both still riding the high of the night when they snuck off to a hidden room, one Fred knew intimately from his pranking escapades. It was tucked away in the corner of the castle, far from the dorms and the classrooms and the bustle of the Great Hall.

At first, they had just sat and talked and joked, like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t fought and made up with a scandalous snog. Then, after a while, Emily felt her eyes grow tired, and Fred yawned, and they wound up snuggled up together on the floor.

“Oi, Fred,” she started and shook his shoulders. “Fred!”

He jolted awake and shot himself upright, looking particularly dishevelled. “Wha—?”

When he saw Emily, his face softened, his heart rate slowed, and he smirked.

“We’ve got to go,” Emily said, getting up. She held out her hand to help him up as well. “It’s crazy late.”

“You sure I can’t convince you to just stay with me ‘til morning?”

Hiding a smile, she just repeated: “We’ve got to go.”

They parted ways with another kiss, and Emily could feel her cheats radiating with heat. She and Fred.

Not only was everything back to normal, it was even better than normal. She touched her hand to her lips and smiled at the memory of kissing Fred.

What a crazy night.

When she got to the Ravenclaw common room, Emily was careful to be as quiet as possible. She had her shoes in her hand and tip-toed toward the door. She snuck inside and leaned her body against the doorframe with the sigh of a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Suddenly the lights switched on, and Violet, Amina, and Patty were all sitting together in their pyjamas on the sofa in front of her.

“There you are,” Violet said, her arms folded tight against her chest.

Emily’s jaw tensed up. “What are you —?”

Violet cut her off with one word: “Spill.”

“Spill what?” Emily asked, the question punctuated with a yawn as she fell into the armchair nearest her.

“Are we supposed to ignore _this_?” Violet asked, her arm gesturing to Emily’s well-worn gown, now wrinkled, and her hair, knotted and falling from its hold. “Now spill.”

“We saw you tonight,” said Amina in a hissing whisper, “with Weasley… whichever one.”

Emily’s brow furrowed. “You lot know I went to the Ball with —”

But Violet interrupted with a correction, saying, “That was George. We’re talking about Fred.”

Emily shrugged, though she wouldn’t look Violet in the eye. “What about him?”

“What happened?” Patty hissed.

The girls’ eyes were all focused on Emily, each eagerly awaiting the story, and Emily felt suddenly sweaty and anxious beneath their gaze.

“You said you saw it.” Emily pursed her lips, trying to hide the blush that crept up her cheeks. It was too soon to say anything definitively, and she didn’t want to jinx it… “I don’t know.”

Violet read Emily’s face, set a hand gingerly on her knee, and pursed her lips into a sad, sympathetic smile. “Oh, Emmy, you’re going to need to sort this out,” she started, “before it gets messy.”

But Emily had a feeling it already _was_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all messy — but so good! I'm so relieved that Emily and Fred got together... well, sort of. Guess we'll need to wait and see how that goes. But they're talking again, and they kissed, so that has to count for something, right? ;)


End file.
